


Picking Up the Pieces

by unilocular



Category: NCIS
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Gibbs is still married, Team as Family, Tony is a Team Leader, What If Shannon Lived?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-22
Updated: 2017-05-22
Packaged: 2018-11-03 19:02:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10973424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unilocular/pseuds/unilocular
Summary: Team Leader Tony DiNozzo is used to having Jethro Gibbs' agents beg to join his team. But when Gibbs' Senior Agent Tim McGee is willing to take a demotion, Tony decides to find out why Gibbs pushes everyone away. The deceased daughter, Tony could've expected, but the estranged wife is just the tip of the iceberg. A What if Shannon Lived AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Musichick2004](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Musichick2004/gifts).



> This work was written for the LJ Reverse Bang and inspired by a beautiful piece of artwork by musichick2004. Without her amazing picture, this story would never have come into being. So thank you for all of your hard work and your beautiful picture that helped me tell a story. 
> 
> And thanks to solariana for all of her hard work for continuing to run these challenges. 
> 
> And thanks for the readers. Without you guys, there wouldn't be writers like me. As always, comments and thoughts are both welcomed and appreciated.

 

Tony DiNozzo should have left the office hours ago.

On a Tuesday night—long past the time any reasonable person would call it quits—he still toils away. Usually, he stays because his inspiration tends to burn brightest when those overhead lights dip to night levels, when everyone in Washington is tucked into their best, when even those lost souls have long overstayed their tenuous welcome. And he never learned how to ignore that little voice that whispers _I’m the right lead, just follow me down the rabbit hole and we’ll solve this case together._

He is already knee deep in a cold case that he just _knows_ he can crack. With a little more time. With a little more elbow grease. And with maybe, just a little luck.

Thankfully, he is on his own this week. His senior agent, Rosie Wilkos, is honeymooning in the Caribbean while his junior agent, Steve Potter, just transferred to Okinawa.  Tony is the only one from Team DiNozzo in the Camp Ground. While he week could be—and hell, should be—filled with early nights and dinners at home and his first date in…

_Shit, I can’t even remember the last time I got laid._

None of that really matters when there is a job to do, where there are cases to solve. Because cold case victims are lost in the shuffle of the living and the active and rarely, if ever, find justice. As a supervisory agent, he appreciates more than anyone the importance of giving a voice to forgotten. And if that means forgoing some—okay, a lot of—his personal time. So be it.

Absently, Tony reaches for a piece of fossilized pepperoni pizza that rests in the box next to a heap of files. He has actively ignored that pile since Potter put in a transfer request two months ago. If he acted like they weren’t there, maybe he wouldn’t have to pick a replacement. After all, he really doesn’t want to review the personnel reports of a bunch of probationary agents, overly eager and nipping at his heels and green as the fucking grass over a septic tank.

_I probably should look at them. It’s not like junior agents fall out of the sky._

Tony’s eyes skirt back to his cold case file. A familiar sense of excitement kicks up deep inside of him. His heart beats a little quicker, that sound of blood _whooshing_ in his ears. The thought of arresting a dirt bag who was convinced that he’d gotten away with murder leaves Tony almost giddy.

Piecing together the puzzle a long-forgotten crime is _so_ much more fascinating than reviewing an agent’s college transcripts and accuracy at the gun range and graduation rank at FLETC. By now, Tony has learned that none of it was a true measure of a man—or woman. You just couldn’t know who would have your six until you were staring down the barrel of a gun with that person by your side.

_Some things just aren’t in a personnel file._

Tony turns back to his case.

_Maybe the agent fairy will leave me a shiny new junior agent under my pillow tonight._

He is busy reviewing a witness statement when he hears soft footfalls of someone nearing his desk. It’s probably just the night janitor, doing his damnedest to sneak past on tip-toe. When the hairs on the back of his neck rise, Tony realizes he is being studied like a lab rat.

When he glances up, Tony finds a man standing in front of him. With the baby fat still on his cheeks and dirty blonde hair and off-the-rack brown suit that hangs in all the wrong places, the man resembles a little kid playing dress up. Tony figures he is probably just a lost intern until he notices the badge clipped to the man’s cheap brown belt.

_Jesus, NCIS started recruiting high schoolers. We must be getting desperate._

Baby Agent’s earnest eyes jump between Tony and somewhere near the elevator like he is rethinking his midnight transgression. He toys with the edge of a hideous tie: fat green and blue stripes on a diagonal. Unconsciously, Tony’s fingers find his black, silk Zegna number. The smoothness comforts him in the wake of the fashion crimes being committed here.

“Excuse me, sir,” Baby Agent says quietly. 

Tony’s brow furrows. “No need for the sir, kid. I’ve never been in the military.”

Baby Agent’s expression turns panicked. “Okay, um. Uh, Agent DiNozzo?”

“Most people around here just call me Tony.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever you’d like, sir.” The flush creeps over Baby Agent’s face. “I’m sorry, Agent DiNozzo. Sorry…Tony.” Wincing, he swallows hard as though he just broke some unspoken rule. “It won’t happen again.”

Tony half-nods. “And you are?”

Baby Agent laughs anxiously. “I guess I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Timothy McGee. People always call me McGee. And sometimes, Tim.”

“ ‘There are those who call me, Tim,’” Tony crows in a bad, fake British accent.

Tim stares at Tony blankly.

Tony’s eyebrows jump. “Haven’t you ever seen _Monty Python and the Quest for the Holy Grail_?”

When Tim shakes his head, Tony makes a face. Fiddling with his coat sleeve, Tim starts casing the exit. And suddenly, Tony realizes why the name sounds so familiar.

He gives Tim his full attention. “You’re Gibbs’ senior agent.”

Licking his lips, Tim nods quickly. Then he glances back in the general area where Team Gibbs works.

_I think they call it the Bullpen, which is a stupid name. The Camp Ground is infinitely better._

To everyone not associated with Team Gibbs, the Bullpen was better known at the Revolving Door. It was the place where probationary agents landed just long enough to get experience before spreading their wings to fly to better jobs…with saner bosses. While Gibbs had a reputation around NCIS for being a hardass—those two B’s stood for Ballbuster and Bastard—his knack for whipping stumbling, bumbling newbies into proficient investigators was unmatched.

_I’d bet that’s why the Director lets him stay. Even if he isn’t sober half the time._

“I know you aren’t here to discuss movies with me,” Tony says before Tim decides to bolt.

Tim glances around like Gibbs might be eavesdropping from wherever he is. “I heard there was an opening on your team.”

Tony tilts his head. “It’s for a junior agent position.”

“I’d like to apply.” A half-second later, he adds a desperate, _“Please.”_

“Do you realize that it’s a step down from your current position?” Tony is completely dumbfounded as to why anyone would willingly apply for a demotion.

Tim nods like his life depends on it. “Yes, I do.”

Shifting back in his chair, Tony looks—really _looks_ —at the younger man. For the first time since Tim arrived, Tony notices the dark bags under his green eyes, the sickly yellow tinge to his cheeks, the defeated slouch in his shoulders, and the wrinkles permanently pressed into his worn-for-days suit. In front of Tony stands a man with barely enough time to change his clothes, let alone enjoy his life.

_So that’s what it looks like to be worked to death._

“How long have you been on Gibbs’ team?” Tony asks.

Tim stands up straighter. “Eight months as junior agent. And as senior, five months, two…” When his voice trails off, Tony is pretty sure Tim keeps count down to the second.

If other team leaders who took on Gibbs’ agents say that six months was better than _ten years_ at FLETC, Tim McGee has had an entire career’s worth of training. To stick with Gibbs for so long told Tony the kid has a tenacity that most agents could only dream of. Despite his soft and youthful exterior, Tony would bet Tim has a lion’s heart with the loyalty to match.

_I guess agents do just fall out of the sky._

Tony eyes the pile of other candidates.

Tim clears his throat. “Tony?”

Tony nods. “File your transfer request, McGee. I’ll approve it as soon as I get it.”

Tim’s eyes widen slightly as he steps back, clearly not expecting Tony to agree so readily. After a long moment, he recovers. “Thank you, sir. I’ll do my best.”

“Call me Tony.” When Tim flinches, Tony laughs. “And I expect nothing less.”

With his head bobbing, Tim slips his gaze towards the Bullpen. “Uh, Tony. I need to get back before…”

“Gibbs realizes you aren’t in the head and rips you a new one?”

Tim genuinely laughs. “Something like that.”

When Tony checks his watch, he groans. Just after eleven. “What _is_ your team still doing here? I thought you made your arrest this morning.”

“We got the guy on his way to work.” Tim shrugs, smiling half-heartedly. “We’ve been finalizing our reports, double-checking that the forensics match the case details, confirming the autopsy results, waiting for…” At the slip-up, he stiffens. Then he sighs. “Basically, we’re waiting for Gibbs to tell us to leave. But I’m starting…well, we kinda think he lives here.”

Tony cocks a crooked grin. “I’ve heard that Ducky lets him sleep on the autopsy slabs. He even converted one of those body freezers into an apartment. Do you think he’s got a mini-fridge in there to keep his beers cold?”

Even though he tries his best not to laugh, Tim fails miserably. When a shout echoes nearby, Tim nearly jumps out of his skin. He peers over his shoulder, then back to Tony, who nods his blessing. After a quick handshake to seal their deal, Tim scurries off in the direction of the Bullpen.

Turning to his computer, Tony loads a file calls _shipjumpers._ After one of Gibbs’ agents came to him looking for a job three years ago, he started keeping a tally of the agents who left. Some might consider it childish and juvenile. Stupid, even. To Tony, it is a litmus test of how well his rival team holds together compared to his. While Team Gibbs has a more impressive closure rate and quicker solve time and takes on more cases, Tony hasn’t lost a member in over two years.

_There is so much more to success than the closure rate._

Tony scrolls to the bottom of the list, then types: _#11 – T. McGee. 14 months. Transferred to Team DiNozzo._ When he skims the other transferred agents, his eyebrows rise. Their tenure on Team Gibbs ranges from just two weeks—Tony couldn’t justify counting that one who didn’t make it past the lobby—to Tim’s fourteen months.

For the first time, Tony considers just how Gibbs manages to keep up those stats with his turnover rate. For the looks of things, the team is hemorrhaging from the inside out. Most of them aren’t around long enough for anyone to learn their names, let alone long enough to become part of the team and work together and figure out the hell to be an agent. But somehow, they did. And Gibbs closed almost every single case that his team took on.

“It’s almost like he’s doing all the work himself,” Tony whispers.

Sure, the probies could do the grunt work: pictures, bagging and tagging, and suspect interviews. For everything else, there would be Abby Scuito and Donald Mallard. But the bulk of the investigative work would fall right onto Gibbs’ shoulders. No one should have that kind of drive, energy, or determination.

“No one should be that good…”

_Unless they aren’t human._

Of course, it _is_ possible that Gibbs is a cyborg like Arnie in _The Terminator._ Or that he could be hooked up to a thought crime network like _Minority Report._ Could it be that Gibbs is a vampire? That one doesn’t quite add up either. He could use his undead experience to hunt down dirtbags and infinite energy from the blood of his probies. Tony is almost onto the idea until he remembers that Tim didn’t have any visible bite marks on his neck and Gibbs does go outside _in the sunlight._

But there is just something about how Gibbs works his team to the bone, cuts them to the quick that doesn’t quite add up. He doesn’t sleep. He doesn’t go home. He just keeps working and working and _working_ like he is running away from something. Like he is trying to forget.

Maybe it’s as simple as Gibbs not wanting people to find out his secrets. Not wanting them to know about the demons that keep him moving like the hounds of hell are on his heels.

But then, who doesn’t have those?

 


	2. Chapter 2

For most of the week, Tony spends his days reviewing cold cases and finalizing a report for an upcoming court date. In his little down-time, he struggles to figure out the enigma that is Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Even though he shouldn’t be, _something_ about the other man just makes Tony so damned curious. If he can figure out what is under Gibbs’ skin, Tony might be able to harness that energy too.

Not that a 92% closure rate isn’t great. In fact, it’s freaking impressive in any other area of law enforcement. But when the other guy is batting nearly a thousand…well, then.

In order to figure out how he does it, Tony starts investigating the investigator: Leroy Jethro Gibbs. Tony takes the long way to the head more times than he’ll care to admit. Spends a little too long lingering in the lab flirting with Abby Scuito. Listens to one too many blustery tales from Donald Mallard. Forgets to push the elevator button while spying on Team Gibbs.

But by Thursday, he has _nothing_ to show for it.

Desperate for some information, Tony breaks the cardinal sin of law enforcement. He pulls Gibbs’ personnel file. Sure, he already looked into Tim—book smart, computer savvy, and just a little bit boring. There is a fine line between due diligence and snooping.

_From what I’ve heard about Gibbs, pulling a personnel file is something he’d do himself. Heck, he might even respect it._

On the surface, Gibbs’ file is almost as boring as Tim’s.

Two tours in desert storm as a Marine Sniper. Honorable discharge in the early 90s for an undisclosed injury. Started at NCIS not long after and landed as a team leader after only two years. The sheer number of accolades—both civilian and military—surprises Tony. For a man who is supposed to be a barely functioning alcoholic, Gibbs is surprisingly celebrated on these pages. Though for every note of praise, there are just as many negative reviews from Gibbs’ superiors and agency psychologists: _prone to fits of rage_ and _a right old bastard_ and Tony’s favorite, _meaner than an unhinged, rabid junkyard dog when backed into a corner._

When Tony gets to the personal section, it takes three tries to make sure he isn’t hallucinating.

Leroy Jethro Gibbs is married.

With a teenaged daughter named Eileen.

By all accounts, on paper, Gibbs appears to be an effective, hard-working man with the picture-perfect background to match. He should be on the fast-track to be director. Hell, he probably should have made director years ago, not a hop-skip-and-a-jump away from the agency-mandated anger management courses. Not torturing probies until all hours of the night.

Tony flicks his lower lip between his teeth.

All his search unearthed was more questions, no answers, and a burning desire to _understand_ what went wrong in the man’s life. Gibbs should have everything, but he acts like he has nothing but that dogged determination to work for.

_What happened to you, Gibbs? How did you lose everything?_

\--

Later that night, Tony finds himself lurking just outside the bullpen. He meant to hit the head before going home, but he just ended up outside the Bullpen again. Now, he wants to watch Gibbs in action.

Standing in the middle of the Bullpen, Leroy Jethro Gibbs faces the plasma screen. His back is ramrod straight, his stance rigid from the years of military service he never left behind. That jarhead haircut is absurd, but it somehow fits Gibbs like everything else. His off-the-rack clothes—probably from Walmart’s bargain bin—are a little too small, a little too tight, and really, _really_ ugly. _Plaid tweed, really?,_ Tony wants to yell at the top of his lungs.

For as calm and collected as Gibbs appears to be him, the world behind him might as well be burning to the ground. Tim McGee attacks his computer with a frenzied energy that explodes from him, boiling over before it has the chance to rip him apart. His jaw is as tight as a spring. Sweat sheens on his forehead. Two other male agents, even younger looking than Tim, work at their stations with the same amount of vigor.

_I could see a Dr. Seuss book about this. McGee in the Hat with Probie One and Probe Two._

When Probie One glances over, Tony recognizes that wild, wide-eyed expression. It’s the same one he sees when he corners a desperate suspect with nowhere to run, when a runner turns to find themselves staring down the barrel of a gun. Hell, Tony has even caught that expression on his own face once or twice. Usually when a girl uses that word he loves to hate: _commitment._

_Shit, Gibbs’ team is terrified of him._

And a split-second later, Tony understands wy.

“Somebody tell me something!” Gibbs bellows.

Looking away, Probie One shares a commiserated stare with Probie Two. Then they both turn to Tim, who looks like he just got dropped into open water without a life raft. He takes a swig of the Pepto-Bismal that’s at the corner of his desk.

“McGee!” Gibbs sounds like he’s about to start shooting.

Tim flinches. Closes his eyes and sighs. Makes a few clicks of his mouse and stands up. “Petty Officer Jack Daylin was last seen – “

“We know where he _was,_ McGee! Tell me where he _is!”_

Slipping deeper behind the cubicle, Tony continues to spy on them. How in the _hell_ does Gibbs manage to keep his team together? If Tony spoke to his team like that, he’s pretty sure Rosie would shoot him right in the ass. And he’d probably deserve it too.

When Tim glances at the other two agents for back-up, they turn away. Probie One takes to organizing the pens in his cup while Probie Two scans something on his computer screen.

With his fingers tightening around the plasma remote, Tim’s expression turns betrayed. The silence blanketing the bullpen grows as thick as jungle brush and anyone crazy enough to breach it would probably need a machete to get through it.

 Tony holds his breath. He is _so_ not going in there.

Tim sighs like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. “We don’t know.”

Gibbs whirls back to glare them down. “Family property near Lancaster, Pa. Been there for _five—“_ he holds his fingers up for emphasis”—hours. And none of you found that!”

Only Probie One is suicidal enough to challenge that. “We didn’t find any record, Boss.”

“It’s under his mother’s maiden name.” Gibbs makes a face like he’s constantly surrounded by idiots.

There’s a couple clicks before Probie One says: “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” His cheeks blaze. “Sorry.” He smiles sheepishly. “Sorry for breaking rule six _again._ It won’t happen anymore.” He looks to his teammates. “Why didn’t we think of that, guys?”

Gibbs shoots Tim a withering glance. “Good question.”

And suddenly, Tony understands why Tim is willing to take a demotion to transfer off this team. It’s one thing to be the senior field agent in the firing line when something goes wrong, but being the scapegoat for an untrained team and cantankerous leader just isn’t _fair._

Without saying a word, Tim sinks back into his desk chair. He types murderously before he sends a picture of an idyllic white farm house against a pale blue sky up to the plasma.

He starts: “That’s the Day – “

“Try Reid,” Gibbs interrupts.

Tim nods defeatedly. “That’s the Reid Family Residence. Just outside Lancaster.”

With his brow furrowed, Probie Two curiously studies Gibbs. All he gets is an irritated “What?”

“If you knew where Daylin was,” he says, “why didn’t you say anything?”

“Was trying to give you three a chance.”

Probie Two nods as though the explanation is good enough. “I guess it’s a good thing you’re here to set up straight, huh?”

Gibbs grits his teeth. “Ya think?”

Probie Two manages a bright smile before Gibbs’ glare wipes it right off his face. So he settles back itno running down something on his computer. While they work, Probie One keeps sneaking glances at Gibbs as though he can’t fathom how their boss reached that conclusion on his own. Without any warning, Gibbs strides over and slaps the younger man on the back of his head. The smack echoes through the Bullpen, all the way to Tony’s hiding place.

Tony winces, rubs the back of his neck sympathetically. _That_ would never have a place on his team.

He can’t believe just how different his and Gibbs’ teams are. When he and his agents discuss a case, they pull their chairs together into what he came to call a Camp Fire. Ideas flow between them like river rapids and for a moment, they are equals in their theories. Nothing is too ludicrous because some of the craziest thoughts—like those ensigns who thought they were going to be like Ocean’s Eleven in Atlantic City—are the right ones. Motives, weapons, suspects, nothing is off limits during their brainstorming. If there is one thing that Tony has learned, it’s the creativity is a huge part of the crime solving process. Some criminals are crafty bastards, so the people hunting them need to be even more so.

But while Tony’s team is a modern-day democracy, Gibbs is part dictator, part overlord. He beats his team into submission until they think like him. And if they don’t, he berates them with his conclusion and his methods.

For some reason, that just intrigues Tony even more. Nothing should make any reasonable person so angry, so agitated, so effective—there’s another _whack_ from the Bullpen. Tim, this time.

Peering around the partition again, Tony watches Gibbs loom over Tim’s desk like he expects answers to appear from thin air. When Tim looks away, he stares straight at Tony. His face goes sheet-white, his mouth gaping. He shakes his head slightly, leans it in the direction of the Camp Ground.

Tony half-smiles to tell him _If I leave now, Gibbs will catch me._

“McGee!” Gibbs snaps.

Confidence clearly shaken, Tim glances up at his boss. “On…on it, Boss. I’m on it.”

Thinking his scare tactics are working, Gibbs nods. “I’m going to see Abby. Go pick up Daylin.”

Tim swallows hard, desperate to look everywhere except where Tony is hiding. “Y-y-yes, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir!”

Tim closes his eyes. “Right.”

Without another word, Gibbs swoops out of the bullpen. Inching towards the back of the cubicles, Tony holds his breath. When Gibbs rushes past, the air drops several degrees as though they’re tinged with ice. As if on reflex, Tony mentally hums _The Imperial March_ from _Star Wars._

_Does that make me Han Solo? I guess McGee would be Chewbacca then._

_Oh boy, he’ll love that._

Tony just rolls his eyes.

Back in the bullpen, Probie One and Probie Two stand, clearly awaiting orders.

Tim doesn’t look up. “You heard the Boss. Go pick up Daylin.”

“Uh, McGee, we don’t know where to go,” Probie One says.

Probie Two adds his two cents: “Yeah, Gibbs didn’t give us the address.”

“I thought you two would’ve…no, you know what…” Tim sighs like the conversation pains his very existence. “I’ll text you the location. Just go get Daylin and come right back. No field trips.”

“On it,” Probie One and Probie Two chorus when they collect their gear.

Then Tim wags his finger at the two probies. “And taking the suspect to a drive through counts as a field trip. Especially when you don’t get him any food. JAG didn’t like that trick last time.”

“But he said he wasn’t hungry,” Probie One says, voice bordering on a whine.

“It doesn’t matter.” Tim pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just don’t do it again.”

Both probies share a dejected look like their plans were just destroyed. With their backpacks slung over their shoulders, they miserably head out towards the elevator. Probie One is too busy trying to clip his hoslter to his belt to notice Tony, who is still creeping at the edge of the cubicle. Once he hears the elevator ding, he feels someone trying to stare a hole through him.

Tim looms over the side of the cubicle, watching him.

Jumping to his feet, Tony laughs anxiously. “Did you just let those two go pick up a suspect? Alone?”  

“They _should_ be fine. Daylin is just an AWOL petty officer who told his CO where to stuff his job. The guy’s a non-violent offender anyway.” Tim shrugs. “Those two need to learn how to handle themselves some time soon. I won’t be around forever.”

Even though he isn’t really listening, Tony nods like he is. He moves into the Bullpen for Gibbs’ desk. Nothing is out of place, not that there is anything there to be. The surface is spartan and militaristic with only items that earn their keep having a home on it. Stapler. A single case file. One pen. No personal effect, no pictures. Not a single trace of Gibbs’ wife or daughter.

_It’s almost like they don’t exist…_

“So Gibbs.” Tony raises his eyebrows. “Yikes.”  

Tim rubs the back of his head. “Now, do you understand why I want to transfer to your team?”

“Absolutely. I’ve heard rumors, but – ” Tony whistles “ – I’ve never seen Gibbs in action. But do you mind if I ask you a question?”

Tim nods. “Go for it.”

“How _did_ you three miss the hidden family property? That’s Dirtbag Hiding 101.”

Tim sighs as he studies something on the Most Wanted Wall. “We just caught the case this morning. We’re on punishment assignments. You know, AWOL sailors, missing uniforms because Gibbs pissed off the director _again_. _”_ Tim’s expression sours further. “I guess I wasn’t as thorough as I should’ve been.”

Tony tilts his head. “How did Gibbs figure it out?”

Tim half-shrugs. “Honestly, I have no idea. He and I interviewed Daylin’s roommate for five minutes. I ran a background check, but that farm didn’t come up anywhere.”

When Tim retreats to his desk, Tony can’t bring himself to move. Suddenly, being here feels a lot like a condemned soul trespassing onto sacred ground. He hesitates as though he is suspended from the ceiling. He doesn’t know what has gotten into himself this week. Poaching another team’s senior agent, stalking the team leader like he is a sociological project to be understood, not an equal to work with. Something about Gibbs just captured Tony’s attention. Perhaps it was the rumors— that he’s a nasty drunk or that he lives at NCIS or that he does all the work alone. Or maybe, Tony managed to be seduced by Gibbs’ surprising win percentage…a near perfect closure rate with the least experienced team in the building. Tony wants that kind of energy, that kind of drive, that kind of batting average.

_I have to figure out how Gibbs does it._

Tony joins Tim. Unsurprisingly, the younger man’s desk is as boring as his boss’. Even the stapler is a boring, industrial black. The only thing that gives any hint of a person, not a robot, using the space are a few pictures of exotic beach locations on the cubicle wall behind Tim’s desk. On closer inspection, Tony discover they are postcards and computer print outs, not real pictures that Tim took.

Tony perches himself on the edge of Tim’s desk.

Collapsing into his chair, Tim releases a world-weary sigh. “Did my transfer order go through?”

Even though it’s been on his desk for two days, Tony still hasn’t signed it. The thought of poaching—even though he is begging and pleading for escape—an effective, capable agent like Tim hasn’t felt quite right to Tony. If he’s going to steal Gibbs’ man, he feels as though he needs to level the karmic playing field. And while he would never offer up any of his agents as a sacrifice to Gibbs, he still needs to figure out how to make things right.

“Not yet,” Tony lies.

Tim makes a face, sighs again. “I guess I’ll talk to HR again.” 

“Did you know that you aren’t the first person who asked for a transfer from Team Gibbs?” Tony asks.

Tim looks like he might’ve heard it before.

“But you’re the first one, I agreed to take on.”

Tim’s veneer cracks. “Ah,” is all he says.

“Did you ever wonder why Gibbs pushes his people away?”

“Not really.” Tim’s expression darkens further. “Maybe he’s just a bastard.”


	3. Chapter 3

Part of what makes Tony such a good investigator is his innate ability to read people. Usually, all it takes is a single look and a few words for him to determine someone’s motives, what drives them, who they _really_ are. For everything else, a well-placed Google search fills in the blanks.

Maybe that’s how Leroy Jethro Gibbs manages to burrow so deep under Tony’s skin. He is the first person Tony hasn’t been able to figure out.  

_I know it’s crazy, but I need to know._

And that’s how Tony ends up sitting in his vintage Mustang, on a personal stake-out. On a Friday night. He turns up the collar of his dress coat to ward off the chill that seeps into the car. His breath turns the air around him into white puffs, fogging up the windows. His fingers went numb. For a moment, he debates about turning on the heater, but there are still a few people intrepid enough to brave the cold.

Not long ago, the last traces of sunlight retreated to cast the sleepy, residential street into near darkness. There aren’t any street lamps here. Nothing to help chase away the invading night except for a few porchlights. The residents probably like that, preserving the historic look of the neighborhood without destroying its charm. 

_Who needs to see where they’re going?_

The Craftsman across the street is as still as a corpse, as silent as the morgue. While life brims through the picture windows of the other houses—a family watching a movie on a big screen television, a young couple sharing dinner at a table—Tony might as well be keeping tabs on a mausoleum.

But then, he doesn’t know what he expected to find.

Some sort of domestic bliss that Gibbs was missing while he toiled away at headquarters. Maybe just a trace of Gibbs’ wife and daughter. Some semblance that they exist. _Existed._ The empty driveway and the peeling paint and the busted porch swing show that the only inhabitant is too busy to enjoy.

_I wonder what happened to them._

A sudden knock at the window makes Tony nearly jump out of his skin. He whirls towards the window, half-expecting to find Gibbs.

Instead, Tim McGee in there with his hands on his hips and staring at Tony like he lost damned his mind.

And Tony starts to think he might just have.

After climbing out of the car, Tony joins Tim on the sidewalk. His breath puffs around them, dancing between him and Tim. The sudden cold digs its claws deeper into him. He wraps his arms around his shoulders and shudders violently.

“Tony? What are we doing here?” Tim asks, his brow knitting in confusion.

“It’s time for a working interview, McGee,” Tony replies, quickly. “I don’t have a case, so I needed something to see how your investigative brain works.”

Tim’s eyes glance towards the well-worn Craftsman. “At Gibbs’ house?”

Tony can’t look at him.

“Did you drag me out here to spy on _my boss_?” Tim asks, his voice jumping an octave.

“Maybe. Kinda. Sort of. Look, no one is home right now. If my source is as reliable as he should be, Gibbs should be sleeping it off in autopsy,” Tony replies, matter-of-factly.

Under the reaching low of a nearby porchlight, Tim’s annoyed expression melts into an inquisitive one. It burns in the hollows of his face, rages at the edges of his brow, catches that little uptick of his lips. He resembles a child, ready to ask a thousand questions. 

“You know the whole Gibbs being drunk half the time is just a rumor, right?” It takes a moment for Tony’s plan to sink in. Then Tim sputters: “You want to break into his house, don’t you? Are you _insane?_ ” When Tony doesn’t reply, Tim presses his fingers to his temples. “Wait, don’t answer that. I know you are.”

“I’ve heard that once or twice,” Tony says flatly.

Without giving Tony a chance to explain himself, Tim heads towards an older model—but still in mint condition—Honda Civic parked up the block. He already has his keys out.

“Did you know that Gibbs is married, McGee?” Tony calls after him.

Stopping dead in his tracks, Tim looks over his shoulder. “Does it matter?”

“He has a daughter too.” When Tim turns around, Tony grins _._ “Her name is Eileen. She should be in high school, but she isn’t enrolled in any of the local ones.”

“My boss’ personal life isn’t really my business,” Tim says.   

Tim’s body language betrays the hostility of his tone. He pockets his keys, crosses his arms to his chest and settles into his stance as though he is ready to hear Tony out. Unsure how to get the words out because he knows just how _crazy_ he’ll sound, Tony bites his lower lip.

_What am I supposed to tell McGee anyway?_

That he called in a few personal favors to get Gibbs’—and Tim’s—personnel file. That he couldn’t comprehend how a man with Gibbs’ pedigree is still a lowly special agent when he should be running the agency. Hell, he could probably even be SecNav or some other bigwig in Washington if he wasn’t so good at pissing people off. But more importantly, why would the man give up his family?

Obviously losing his patience, Tim raises his eyebrows to tell Tony to get on with it.

Tony tilts his head towards the house. “Where are they?”

“I thought you were going to tell me.”

Tony half-laughs. “I’m being serious, McGee.”

Tim narrows his eyes. “So am I, Agent DiNozzo.”

“Don’t you think it’s weird that no one knows Gibbs is married?” When that doesn’t get a reaction, Tony tries: “Isn’t it even stranger that they aren’t here _?”_

Tim’s expression softens slightly. “Maybe they’re on vacation.”

“Without Gibbs?” Tony asks, his lips pulling into a smile.

Surprise flashes across Tim’s face when his mouth deepens into a tight line. That’s the moment that Tony knows he has the younger man hook, line, and sinker. If the personality analysis in Tim’s file is to be believed, it won’t just be the thrill of the chase drawing him into Tony’s mystery, but the desire to prove himself to an authority figure. In this case, his new boss: Tony DiNozzo.

“Gibbs could be estranged from his family,” Tim offers.

_Gotcha, kid._

Tim’s tone turns exasperated. “I heard you like off the wall theories, Agent DiNozzo. What are you thinking here? That Gibbs killed his family and buried them in the backyard because – “

“That would be a little too much like _The Burbs_ for me. Estranged makes the most sense.” Tony rolls the skin on his chin between his thumb and forefinger as he thinks. “I wonder where they would go.”

“I’m not sure, but – “ Tim jingles his keys in his pocket “ – I’ve got to get back to work.”

Tony gapes at him. “Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

“Not really.” But Tim hangs back anyway. Then in a near whisper, he asks: “Do I still have the job if I don’t go through with your crazy plan?”

Given how desperate Tim is to escape his current situation, Tony decides not to hold the younger man’s reluctance against him. While he is used to people going along with his harebrained schemes, he isn’t one to force someone against their will. He just prefers to help them find their own motivation. Some might call it manipulation, but Tony prefers to think of it as managing his people effectively. 

“Of course,” Tony says.

Tim straightens up, nods. “Thank you, sir. I’ll see you at the office.”

Before Tim has a chance to leave, Tony tries the last tactic he has. “What about Probie One and Probie Two, McGee? You – “

Tim blinks. _“Who?”_

“Your team.”

The furrow in Tim’s brow deepens. “Oh, you mean Smith and Khalil? What does this have to do with them?”

Certain that Tony has Tim’s full attention, he continues: “You were so hesitant to let them go pick up an AWOL petty officer earlier. What do you think is going to happen when you transfer?”

Tim’s face pinches like the thought hadn’t crossed his mind.

“They’ll be at Gibbs’ mercy. Alone.” Tony hammers his point home: “You won’t be able to protect them anymore. What if you could fix Gibbs before you transferred?”

Tim glances at his car despondently.

And for a moment, Tony worries that he’s losing his touch, that he didn’t read Tim right.

When Tim turns back to Tony, he releases a world-weary sigh like he knows how screwed he is. Damned to be on Gibbs’ shit list if he does and damned to be stuck on Gibbs’s team forever if he doesn’t.

“Alright.” Tim releases that sigh again. “Let’s get this over with.”


	4. Chapter 4

When Tony takes a shortcut across the yard, the ankle-high grass laps at his ankles, leaving behind traces of the icy slush. It clings onto his pants, drips into his Ferragamos, and drenches his socks. Muttering a curse to himself, he squelches up the porch steps. Beneath his feet, the wood groans as though it hasn’t carried a load in years.

Behind him, Tim took the longer—and drier—route up the driveway to the little walk with the crooked, paving stones. He moves slowly, arms out like a tight-rope walker, trying not to avoid the slippery patches. Like one wrong move would send him crashing back down to Earth.

Rolling his eyes, Tony heads to the front door.

What was once probably cheerful, cherry red has faded away like it just couldn’t hold onto the memory any longer. Bits of paint on the trim curl up to expose the untreated wood underneath as though it can’t stand being here either. An old wooden, robin’s egg blue swing sits on the ground, its chains strewn out beside it. Forgotten and forlorn, just like the rest of the property.

Tony presses his lips together, desperate to make some sense of it. To him, it just looks like Gibbs spends too much time working to bother with his house.

_That can’t be it._

Crouching by the door, Tony takes a moment to survey the lock. It’s a simple one that probably came with the house. Builder’s grade nearly a half century ago. What was substandard in the 60s is completely useless today. Almost disappointed by the lack of a challenge, Tony reaches into his pocket for his lock-picking tools. Sure, he _could_ just use a credit card, but he needs to show Tim how to do things right. After all, what kind of role model would he be if he used his Gold AmEx to break in?

Tony plucks some tools from his roll. Hook pick in his right hand, torsion wrench in his left. He might need the snake rake too, so he holds that between his teeth…just in case. He knows how professional, how skilled, how James Bond he looks.

He hears the stairs groan behind him, then footsteps as Tim draws closer. Next time, Tony will give the younger man a ten-minute head start.

“What are you doing?” Tim asks suddenly, _loudly_.

Through gritted teeth and snake rake, Tony says: “Getting us inside.”

Leaning past him, Tim twists the door knob.

_Like that will do –_

The door opens with a belabored creak.

Losing his purchase point, Tony lurches forward to land face-first onto a scratch Oriental rug and a huge pile of mail. The snake rake jams into the inside of his cheek, starting the coppery taste of blood into his mouth. Tony lets out a hiss, a curse, and a growl.

Tim is on him in an instant, stuttering his apology and easing Tony to his knees.

Tony waves him away. “I’m fine.”

Tim stands in the foyer, wide eyes glinting like stars in the moonlight.

“Really, McGee.” Tony rubs his cheek. “I. Am. Fine.”

When Tony climbs to his feet, Tim half-nods. Glancing around, Tony takes a deep breath. The air, stale and thick, nearly suffocates him. It’s like the house itself hasn’t exhaled in years. There is something else buried deep underneath the scent of burnt coffee and TV dinners and sawdust.

Regret. Sadness. Loneliness.

Tony would recognize that smell anywhere. He catches in his own apartment, here and there. Most often, when he wakes up on his couch after a bender and a movie night.

Tim speaks first. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m still fine,” Tony snaps. “How’d you know about the door?”

Tim shrugs with one shoulder. “I’ve been here a couple of times. He never locks his door.”

Tony’s eyebrows jump. “Not even when he’s at work?”

“Nope.”

Tony presses his lips together. “Interesting.”

While Gibbs might too much of a dinosaur to be interested in security systems and deadbolts and keyless entry systems, Tony finds it strange that he can’t be bothered to secure a simple door lock. Even in the dark, Tony can’t see that would be worth stealing.

When Tim flicks on the nearest light switch, a tiny table lamp in the living room flickers to life.

Together, they stand in the hallway surveying the house where Leroy Jethro Gibbs spends so little of his time. Instantly, Tony understands why Gibbs wouldn’t want to spend a minute longer than he has to.

The place is just a house, not a home.

A threadbare couch, set up with blankets and a pillow, rests under the big picture window. An old television that probably plays moves in black and white guards an old, well-used fire place. The white paint on the walls has gone yellow-brown over the years. Perhaps they have been forgotten or neglected or just ignored. Like everything else in the house. There are no pictures on the fireplace mantle, no art on the walls, no books on the coffee table.

It is spartan at best, lonely at worst.

Tim stands there like he has seen it all before.

Tony puts his hands on his hips, cocks his head. Licks his lips. Searches for the words to ask how someone can live like this. With no reminders of the past, no thoughts on the present, no dreams for the future. Just someone who lives like they’re just going through motions.

“Ah,” is all Tony can manage.

“That’s what I think too.” Tim tries for a smile, but it comes as a grimace. “But who am I to judge? I don’t live here...”

“I know.” Tony nods. “Where is any trace of his family?”

Tim shrugs. “I didn’t even know he had one until you told me earlier.”

Unable to help himself, Tony wanders into the small living room. Tim stays in the foyer, body angled towards the door for a quick getaway. Even though Tony knows what he’s doing is wrong—trespassing into Gibbs’ life, invading his privacy, going through his _things_ —he can’t stop. He is transfixed by the mystery of Gibbs and his family, drawn to see it through to the bitter end like every other case he has ever solved. To him, it might just be as important as catching a murderer.

Tony heads past a dining room table that looks like it came from a flea market. The chairs are mismatched, ladder-backed Windsors and metal diner seats and even a well-used bachelor’s chair.

When Tony continues moving through the house, Tim trails him at a distance. He lurks in the living room, clearly conflicted between staying and escaping.

In the kitchen, Tony takes in the dirty counter tops, the empty cabinets, the coffee-maker so used that there is a permanent ring of black tar on the carafe. The refrigerator looks like something out of mid-century movie—was that the one in _Play Misty for Me_? Tony jerks the metal arm to open it, revealing a few packaged steaks, five potatoes, and milk two weeks out of date. Nothing for breakfast, nor lunch. Just raw meat that a man like Gibbs might eat for a midnight snack after he was done sapping the life energy of his team.

When the door thuds closed, Tony notices something fluttering on edge. Trapped between the wall and the side of the fridge, there is a piece of paper held up by a clip magnet shaped like a man. Tony pulls it out, surprised to find a painting done in a child’s unsteady hand. The picture is a stick-figure man with dark hair, a woman with flame-red hair, and a little girl with black hair against a house with a cherry door and a giant, yellow sun. At the very bottom, it is signed _Kelly._

Tony holds the paper out to Tim, who crosses the room to study it too.

Tim shoots Tony a confused look. “I thought you said his daughter’s name was Eileen.”

“I did,” Tony says, resolutely. “That what his file said. I don’t know who Kelly is.”

Pressing his lips together, Tim’s gaze shifts towards a door on the far wall. Tony’s eyes follow, but he doesn’t know what Tim is looking at.

_Basement door? Or the way to the back yard?_

“What are you thinking, McGee?” Tony asks.  

Tim sighs like he is in far too deep to ever climb out. “If we’re going to learn anything about Gibbs, we’ll find it in the basement. He spends all his time down there.”

Tony half-smiles. “That’s where his skeletons are buried, huh?”

“It seems a little cliché, doesn’t it?” Tim says with a laugh.

After a quick shrug, Tony follows Tim downstairs. As soon as they cross the threshold, the freezing air envelopes them, dragging them both down into its icy depths. Tony pulls his coat tighter around his body, turns his collar up. It doesn’t work to ward off the chill.

Tony has no idea where the draft comes from. The entire space is sealed with no door, no windows, no connection to the outside world. From the rafters, a few spare bulbs bathe the entire space in a dull, depressing glow. Shadows stretch towards Tim and Tony’s feet, wraps themselves around the two men as though they rejoice to have company in their sorrow again.

Tony can’t take his eyes off the monstrosity that takes up most of the available space.

“What the _hell_ is that?” he gasps.

“A boat,” Tim says as though it’s perfectly normal to have a twelve-foot, half-finished boat hull. In a basement.

Tony surveys the cinderblock walls, the hand-planed slat-wood stairs. “I can see that. How does he get it out of here?”

“That’s another great mystery about Gibbs.” Tim shrugs again. “Khalil thinks he keeps building the same boat over and over again.”

The hint of a smile crosses Tony’s face. For a split-second, he can picture Gibbs down here in an old sweatshirt and well-worn fatigues breaking the boat down, just so he can build it again. It’s a simple task, mindless and mechanical. Perfect for a man who seems to be set on going through the motions.

Tony moves towards the workbenches against the far wall. They are laden with tools that Tony has never seen before, but he thinks they all look the same. Wood shavings are mixed with old mason jars and there are more empty bottles of bourbon than Tony cares to count.

“What are you looking for?” Tim calls.

Tony presses his lips together. “I’ll know it when I see it.”

“What should _I_ do?”

“Try to figure out how Gibbs gets that boat out of here.”

Tim huffs. But true to his determined nature, he turns to study the boat hull as though he mentally takes its measurements before he turns back towards the stairs. He makes a face at himself, shakes his head violently and starts over.

Glancing back to the workbench, Tony studies a pair of pictures held on the wall with a thumbtack. He pushes a few carved wood scrolls out of the way. One of them is like the child’s picture upstairs. A much younger Gibbs, grinning from ear-to-ear, with a red-haired woman and a girl with chestnut hair between them. They’re sitting on the porch swing, hands wrapped around the chains. All of them look happy, natural, like smiling is part of their life.

Something that might be sadness kicks up in Tony’s chest. He has a picture that is nearly identical of him and his parents. It was taken on last DiNozzo family vacation to Newport. Sometimes if he stares at it long enough, he can hear the trill in his mother’s laugh and the humor in his father’s jokes. He can feel the sand beneath his toes, the salt spray against his cheeks, the sun on his skin. He was happy. _They_ were happy. Less than three months later, his mother took her life. And nothing never was the same again.

He chokes out a cry, but stifles it into a cough.

“Hey Tony, are you okay?” Tim calls from underneath the boat hull.

“Still fine, McGee,” Tony replies.

While Tim mutters something unintelligible, Tony turns to the other picture. Gibbs is absent from that one. It’s more formal, posed and paid for. The red-haired woman looks different now. Her porcelain skin is marred by a jagged, diamond shaped scar that digs across most of the left side of her face. She tries to smile, but it’s lopsided from the scar and doesn’t reach her dull, vacant eyes. Beside her, there is a girl about the same age as the one in the first picture. She has her mother’s fire-red hair and creamy skin, Gibbs’ ice blue eyes and thin nose. Her grin is broad and vibrant, full of the life her mother lacks.

“That must be Eileen,” Tony whispers.

His eyes skirt back to the first picture, land on the smiling brown-haired girl.

“And that must be Kelly.” He frowns deeply. “What happened to your family, Gibbs?”

Across the room, Tim slithers out from underneath the boat hull. Sawdust clings to his hair and eyebrows like snow on the trees after a blizzard. His dark brown suit is a sandy, beige now. He does his best to sweep it away, but only makes it worse. He ends up with a coughing fit.

“Did you say something, Tony?” he asks, gasping for air.

At that moment, the lights cut out and the world plunges into darkness. The hair on the back of Tony’s neck rises like he is being watched. He hears a scratching on the stairs.  Before Tony has a chance to move, a familiar sound sends his heart into his throat. He would recognize _that_ anywhere.

The sound of a gun cocking.

“Don’t move,” an authoritative voice bellows. “I _will_ shoot you.”

_Shit. Gibbs came home early._

He continues, closer now: “Both of you.”

Even though it’s too dark for Gibbs to see, Tony puts his hands up in a show that he doesn’t want a bullet in the ass. Nearby, Tim gives a little yelp and makes the same motion. Tony holds his breath, waiting for Tim to speak up. When he doesn’t, Tony slides towards him.

Suddenly, raw fear rips through him like wildfire. And he _knows_ that damned gun is pointed right at him.

“I said, _Don’t move!”_ Gibbs yells.

Tony kicks out in the dark, hits the soft body next to him.

“Oh hey, boss,” Tim calls, his voice tight.

“McGee?” Gibbs asks, disbelievingly.

The light flickers back on. By the base of the stairs, Gibbs stands at attention with a Sig pointed in their direction. He lowers it to his side, staring at them like he just found a pair of aliens researching his life. When his eyes glide to Tony, there is a mixture of confusion and anger in them.

Tony recognizes something that rages beneath those emotions, deep within the depths of Gibbs’ soul. It’s the same glint Tony’s father used to give him after his mother died, every time he would look at the little boy that he neither loved, nor even wanted. Tony bristles at the thought of Gibbs staring at that tiny, red-haired girl—Eileen, he reminds himself—with the same derision.

And in that moment, Tony needs to know _why._

Gibbs breaks the silence first. “What are you doing here, McGee?”

Tim pauses for a long moment, shifting his weight, looking here and there…everywhere that isn’t his boss. His face flushes a shade that’s between a tomato and blood as he uneasily stutters: “I-I-I came to upd-d-date you on the D-d-daylin c-case, Boss. I-I-I thought you might be d-d-down here.”

And that’s when Tony learns that Tim is a shitty liar. A great quality for a subordinate, but not a good one for the man by your side when you’re staring down the barrel of a gun.

By the way Gibbs studies them, Tony is pretty sure that he’s deciding whether to kick them out or shoot them both and bury them in the backyard.

Tim rambles on.

When Tony tries to interrupt, Gibbs’ glare shuts him right the hell up. Tony’s heart races. His skin breaks out in a cold sweat. All because of a fucking stare. It’s like being tasered with a thousand volts in the nads. Being held hostage by a crack head. Having a woman mutter the dreaded words: _I think I’m pregnant._

_Hell, I think those are preferable to this._

Tony licks his lips.

_How the hell is McGee still talking?_

“…Daylin case, Boss.”

“You already did,” Gibbs says flatly. “Before you left to grab dinner.”

“Oh, I guess I forgot.” Somehow, the flush on Tim’s face deepens. “Sorry.”

“Rule Six.”

Tim flinches. “Sorry, boss.”

“And you needed Agent DiNozzo to escort you because?” Gibbs presses.

Visibly cringing, Tim works his jaw like a spring. “My car died. When I was leaving, so he offered me a ride to pick up dinner. Then, we had to stop here. So I could discuss the case. With you.”

Gibbs nods carefully, seeing the excuse as half-way plausible. When he glances towards Tony, the agent just makes a face to tell Gibbs that everything Tim says is right, to just go with it. Anything to get Gibbs to look somewhere else, anywhere else. Then, they can get the hell out of here.

Nodding again, Gibbs moves past them to his workbench. He places his gun next to his tools, and picks up three Mason jars. He stares at the two picture of his families for a half-beat before he fills the jars with bourbon. Then he turns around. Seeming to accept the unwanted company, he passes one to Tim and the other to Tony. Tim just stares at the jar morosely like he had hoped for a quick escape from Gibbs’ lair, not a drink and hug-it-out, Kumbaya session.

“Thanks,” Tony says.

Taking a sip, Tony revels in the burn that takes the edge off the waning adrenaline rush. Since he has a chance to be up close with Gibbs, he sidles right up next to the man.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Gibbs.” Tony says, desperate to fill the silence. “I’ve heard a lot of great things about you. From everyone. Even McGee.” He flinches. “Especially McGee.” He licks his lips, tries again. “You’ve got an impressive track record. Actually, it’s _really_ impressive. A heck of a lot better than mine.” He barks an awkward laugh. “But who’s keeping tabs anyway?”

Gibbs smiles like he sees right through the bullshit. “Apparently, you are.”

Cringing, Tony downs the bourbon.

Across the basement, he notices that Tim is smart enough to avoid the conversation like he would a live grenade. He works the boat’s wood with sandpaper, checking the smoothness every so often.

While it should be soothing, Tim’s motions make Tony even more edgy. Because Tim _knows_ what his boss is probably thinking in this situation.  Tony keeps his gaze fixed dead ahead, staring at the boat hull because Gibbs is trying to bore a hole through him with his eyes. For the first time in his life, Tony feels as transparent as cellophane and just as flimsy.

“I know about McGee’s transfer request,” Gibbs says.

“Ah. Uh. Yeah. About that.” Tony runs his fingers on the corrugated edge of the Mason jar. “I’ll be approving it shortly.” 

“And I assume that’s what you came here for?” Gibbs’ face softens slightly. “To tell me in person?”

With a clipped nod, Tony decides to just go with it. “Yes, it is.”

Sighing, Gibbs heads to the workbench for more bourbon. Under Tony’s watchful eye, Gibbs downs a few more jarfuls before he turns back. This time, his expression is defeated, his blue eyes alight with remorse. He watches Tim with a resignation like he is far too used to losing those he relies on.  Tony fights the urge to ask him _why_ he treats his people the way he does.

“McGee’s a good agent.” Gibbs nods. “He’ll serve you well.”

Tony tilts his head. “Did you ever tell him that?”

Gibbs glances over, clearly confused. “He knows it.”

“But have you ever said the words?” Holding Gibbs’ gaze, Tony doubles down. “To anyone?”  

“It’s not necessary. Real agents shouldn’t need hand-holding.”

“It’s nice to hear that you’re appreciated once in a while. Like your hard work really means something.” Tony’s eyes skirt back towards Gibbs’ family pictures. “Like you actually care about someone.”

Gibbs’ jaw sets, his body going rigid as he understands the double meaning behind Tony’s words.

Tony thinks he is establishing a connection, thinks he is breaking down Gibbs’ walls, think he is helping Gibbs become a better man, a better father. It’s something Tony always wished he could have done with his own father before their relationship rotted from the inside out.

_I wish I could’ve saved my family. Maybe there is still time to save Gibbs’._

“Who is Kelly?” Tony blurts out.

Gibbs’ cheeks blanch.

And just when Tony believes the man will open up to him, Gibbs throws his Mason jar at the boat. On the other side of the hull, Tim ducks behind his arm as the glass shards rain down. They land amongst the sawdust, glinting like fallen stars. Tim peers around the edge of the boat hull, his eyes wide and mouth set into a tight line.

Tony swallows audibly.

“Get out,” Gibbs growls.

Tim slips around the boat hull. Right into the crosshairs of Gibbs’ wrath. 

“You too, McGee.” Gibbs jerks his heads towards the stairs. “Get the fuck out.”

Without needing to be told twice, Tim bolts up the stairs. He doesn’t even look back, leaving Tony to fend for himself against Gibbs. Tony hangs back for a moment, trying to decide whether he is suicidal—or stupid—enough to talk to Gibbs again.

When the older man shoulders sag, Tony gets it.

He finally fucking _gets it_.

“I didn’t know Kelly passed away.” Tony’s frown deepens as he sighs. “I’m sorry.”

Gibbs looks him square in the eye. “Rule Six, DiNozzo.”

Tony blinks. “What?”

“Apology is a sign of weakness.” When Tony tries to correct him, Gibbs holds his ground. “Now, get the hell out of my house.”

Knowing there is no reasoning with the man in front of him, Tony heads for the stairs. He climbs them two at a time until he hits the kitchen. When he hazards a glance over his shoulder, he catches Gibbs holding the picture of his second family like they were made of glass, like he would be the powder keg to destroy them all. And maybe in some way, Tony thinks he had.

Deep down, Tony knows he should probably let this whole thing—trying to save Gibbs, trying to rebuilding his family—go. Someone people aren’t meant to be saved and others don’t want to be. But Tony always believed that some just needed to be showed what would happen if they _could_ be. It is a lot like dragging a drowning man back to dry land and letting him feel the sand beneath his feet again. When he is under water, he surrenders himself to the ocean, not knowing what he was leaving behind, not knowing what was worth fighting for until he caught his breath. Tony likes to think Gibbs is a lot like that. Not knowing how it would feel to be saved until he is.

_Maybe I just spend too much time wishing I could’ve saved my own family._

Settling deeper into his decision, Tony heads back through the kitchen, retraces his way through the living room. The air on the first floor is frigid from the front door left wide open. The porchlight is the only one on in the entire house. It’s just enough to send the shadows stretching across the floor, trying to lure him out into the deep, dark night.

Tim must’ve followed them, because he is long-gone. And given Gibbs’ earlier explosion, Tony doesn’t blame the younger man one bit.

On his way out, Tony pauses by the pile of the mail in the foyer. At the top of the pile is a card in a powder blue envelope with a return address in Stillwater, Pennsylvania.

The sender is Shannon Gibbs.

Already in way deeper than he ever meant to be, Tony resolves he’ll do what he always does: see the mission through to the bitter, bitter end. It doesn’t matter whether Gibbs will be pissed at him or fall on his knees in thanks.

Tony will see it through because, in the end, it’s the right thing to do.


	5. Chapter 5

The following morning, Tony has no idea how to convince Tim to tag along. Nonetheless, he calls the younger man at the crack of six o’clock and yammers anxiously into the deafening silence that fills Tim’s end of the line. Tony apologizes—yes, because he thinks Rule Six is moronic—for breaking into Gibbs’s house, for not telling him about that stupid detour, for expecting Tim to blindly trust him before he earned it. He pleads his case and tells Tim about Gibbs’ wife. In the end, Tim says the only phrase Tony needs to hear: _Okay, I’m in._

They take Tony’s Mustang on the lonely highways to Pennsylvania. Lunchtime on a workday leave the roads empty except for the odd tractor trailer. Trees throw their bare branches towards the cloudless sky, basking in a sun that refuses to share its warmth with them. Patches of last night’s wet snow cling to the landscape. If they weren’t racing the daylight—and a blizzard warning—Tony might have a chance to appreciate the scenery instead of racing to escape the twisting mountain highways.

Sitting in silence, Tim blankly watches the world whiz past. He hasn’t spoken a word since Tony picked him up. Tony has no idea what lie Tim had to tell to come on their impromptu road trip. Thankfully, Tony’s agents—Wilkos still floating around on the high from her honeymoon and Potter gone for good—were too busy to notice that Tony didn’t actually have the flu.

Tony falls into an odd rhythm as he listens to the purr of the Mustang’s engine and its tires feast on asphalt. He bends into the turns in a sort of road hypnosis. It’s relaxing enough to let his mind wander to what he might find deep in the heart of Pennsylvania’s coal country.

Gibbs’ wife and child. Help rebuild the man’s family. And in a way, finish a lifelong dream he always wished he could.

Somewhere far north of Philadelphia, the four-lane highway devolves into a two-lane road with rock walls so close that they nearly kiss the Mustang’s side view mirrors. Tim holds his breath; Tony drives the accelerator deeper into the floor. The mountains spread to show more of their treasures in the way of little towns, rolling barren fields covered in snow, and cows. So many freaking cows that Tony finally knows where all of Gibbs’ steaks come from.

Coming across the town of Stillwater is a bit anticlimactic for Tony. After the four hours of winding mountain roads and covered bridges, the deserted Main Street leaves a lot to be desired. The general store’s filthy windows display a barren interior, while its sign, proclaiming GENERAL STORE, has the block letters from half a century ago.  The rest of the town is full of empty store fronts with sun-bleached _For Rent_ signs hanging in them as though someone gave up ever leasing the properties.

Tim lets out a hiss. “How can the town not have a stoplight?”

“It doesn’t have a stop sign either,” Tony says, pointing as he crosses an intersection. “Not like there’s anyone to run into here.”

Tim considers that for a moment. “It’s a good thing with the way you drive.”

“There’s no point in driving something like Betty if you –“

“Betty?” Tim repeats, glancing over with a furrowed brow.

Tony winces, hating whenever someone finds out that he _named_ his car after Betty Grable. Not that it’s exactly a MOAS, but fuck…it’s embarrassing to be a grown man who loves the collection of metal, rubber, and leather that is his 1967 Mustang more than any woman he has ever met.

“You don’t drive a beauty like this without giving her a proper name,” Tony says, knowing he sounds a little crazy, a little strange.

Tim shoots Tony a look like he expects him to go all _Deliverance_ on him. “Her?”

“Yes. Her. Betty.” Tony nods emphatically. “Doesn’t your car have a name, McGee?”

Tim laughs in spite of himself. “Nope, I picked mine up off a used car lot when I moved up here from Norfolk. Once my student loans are done, I’m trading _it_ in for something better.”

Half-nodding, Tony leaves it at that. Once they’re outside of town—though one would be hard-pressed to call it a town—Tony finds the street from the return address on Shannon Gibbs’ card. About a mile up the road, there is a black mailbox that’s the only sign of life in the middle of nowhere. Tony hangs a hard right onto the dirt driveway, cursing G-d for the Mustang’s rear wheel drive as the car bounces along the path. In the passenger seat, Tim stares at Tony like he knows his little, used-car-lot POS could make the trek better than the wonderful Betty.

_Yeah right._

At the end of the driveway lies a small, well-kept Victorian house. Its exterior is painted a dark evergreen with contrasting white scrolls and shutters. The front door is a familiar, cherry red. Smoke curls up from the chimney as though in offering to the sky. An old, beige Volvo station wagon is parked near a barn with red paint that has given up holding on. 

As soon as Tony stops the car, Tim clambers out. He stretches languidly as he takes in their surroundings. Tony follows him out into the fresh air. He takes a deep breath, surprised by how crisp and clean it is here. No scent of car exhaust, no hint of pollution. Just the smell of damp earth and moisture cling to the air, as much a promise of a storm as the angry, black clouds looming to the west.

When the wind kicks up, the tails of Tim’s trench coat flap behind him. Tony’s hair whips wildly as he desperately tries to choose between taming it or tightening his scarf. Tony runs his hands through his hair, deciding that looking good for an interview trumps being comfortable.

Tim’s pale green eyes flick towards the house. “Did you call Mrs. Gibbs and let her know to expect us?”

“Of course,” Tony says.

Tim’s look calls him a liar. “Why wouldn’t – “

“Let’s just go talk to her, okay?”

Tony straightens in his stance, fidgets with his hair again. Then he leads the way across the frozen ground, past the hibernating rose bushes and up the meticulously kept porch steps. As he knocks on the front door, the sight of a Robin’s egg blue porch swings catches his eye. Here, the swing is still well-maintained with the only sign of its use is a small amount of paint worn away on the seat.

Tim stands next to Tony, eyeing him. “You didn’t tell her we were coming.”

Tony shoots Tim a look that says _Guilty as charged._ Tim’s brow pinches in anger as he glances furtively back at the car. Tony jingles the key in his coat pocket to tell Tim that they aren’t going anywhere.

“I could hotwire it, you know,” Tim says flatly.

Tony crooks an eyebrow as he knocks again. “If you can, I’ll walk back to DC.”

Before Tim has a chance to make good on his threat, the front door opens. The scent of vanilla and firewood greet them as well as a stunning warmth. It smells like what Tony always thought home would smell like, if he could remember that far back.

Tony instantly recognizes Shannon from the pictures in Gibbs’ basement, except they do her beauty justice. He could tell she was striking once, gorgeous in that wholesome, girl next door kind of way before time robbed her of that natural gift. The years carved their way across her face, each line a testament to the pain she experienced. The loss of a daughter, the absent spouse, the single-motherhood she neither wanted nor deserved, but there was a powerful resilience in her cornflower blue eyes. Tony knew she had looked straight into the bowels of hell and dug herself out. Alone.

Even Tim is awestruck into silence.

She pushes a piece of grey-streaked red hair behind her ears. “Can I help you?”

Recovering first, Tony pulls out his badge. “Mrs. Gibbs?”

Setting her jaw, she stands up a little bit straighter. Then she nods.

“I’m Special Agent DiNozzo and this is – “ he gestures to Tim, who is fumbling for his creds “ – Special Agent McGee. We’re from NCIS.”

Shannon’s gaze flick from Tony’s gold badge to Tim’s and back again. Tears well in her eyes and her face goes calm like a beach before a hurricane blows everything straight to hell.

“It’s Jethro, isn’t it?” When neither agent speaks, she gives a little half-nod as though it could mend her shattering heart. “What took him from us? Was it the bourbon?”

Tony and Tim share a shocked glance. The expression Tim’s face tells Tony that the younger man is too far out of his depth to be helpful at the moment.

“Jethro…” Tony makes a face at just how _awkward_ it sounds “…he’s fine, Mrs. Gibbs. We just came to speak with you because…” His voice trails off when he realizes how crazy it sounds.

What is he supposed to say anyway? That he and Tim blew off work, drove four and a half hours on winding country roads to be here. And for what? To talk to her about her husband because Tony felt some cosmic pull deep in his heart to help heal their family. Since he couldn’t save his family, he wanted to fix theirs. Fuck, he might as well tell them that G-d told him to intervene.

_Yeah, that won’t get me committed._

Even though Tim speaks up, he stares at the floor. “We work with your husband, ma’am. I have for a few years now. We…Agent DiNozzo and myself, obviously…we’re concerned about him. That’s all.”

Knowing he can’t follow up to _that_ , Tony nods resolutely.

Shannon’s smile is slight, fleeting. “I have to say that you two are the first from the agency to express any thought for us.”

“I know – “ Tim looks up, his green eyes burning “—and for that, please accept our apologies.”

“Thank you, Agent McGee. I appreciate the thought.” She licks her lips. “How is Jethro?”

Tony doesn’t know quite how to reply. And if he’s a loss for words, there is no way that Tim could figure out how to answer that question. Maybe Tony just wants to protect Shannon from the truth: that Gibbs is a miserable, drunk bastard who’s hellbent on making everyone he meets as unhappy as him. And maybe, she knew what she was getting into. Maybe that Gibbs was the one she married.

But something about how she tries to curl into herself as though take up less space and Gibbs’ broad smile in his old photos tells Tony that this family was destroyed by death. Just like when his own mother took one step off that bridge and into the oblivion she craved.

Tony swallows hard, catching Shannon’s attention.  Their eyes meet and they share a glance that’s usually reserved for fellow victims. One that speaks of a shared pain, of solidarity and empathy and understanding. Usually, Tony buries it so deep that even he forgets it’s there. But for some reason, Shannon knocks down his walls like a wrecking ball, dredges everything up in a maelstrom of emotions.

He breaks the stare, but not her hold over him.

Stepping out of the way, Shannon opens the door further. “Would you two like to come inside? It’s terribly cold out there and you two have had a long trip.”

Tony nods. “Thank you, Mrs. Gibbs.”

She smiles. “Call me Shannon.”

“Tony.” When he extends his hand, she shakes it. “And that’s Tim.”

All Tim has to offer is a meek smile and a quick wave.

After they shrug off their coats, Shannon carefully places them on hangers in the hall closet. The house is small, but cozy with old, woodwork obviously crafted by an old master. Right by the front door, a set of stairs with a dark wood spiral banister and a red-runner lead to a second floor. Just off the hallway, there’s a small sitting room with a pink Victorian style couch and a mahogany coffee table. The walls are an off-white, plastered with family pictures. Interspersed with the pictures of the two girls are a few of Gibbs in fatigues and in his dress uniform.

As Shannon leads them down the hallway, the girls seem to grow before Tony’s very eyes. From diapers to mischievous toddlers to gangly-limbed children. While the redhead continues to a teenager, the brunette stays frozen in her childhood. Forever a grinning, little girl.

In a small, farm-style kitchen with white cabinets and a huge sink, Shannon makes them coffee with a machine that’s probably older than Tim. By the time it’s done, it is as black as road tar and just as strong. Tony smothers the flavor with half the sugar bowl and a pint of cream.

Tim just sips it, grinning. “This is really good, Mrs. Gibbs. Thanks.”

She shoots him a look.

He smiles sheepishly. “Thanks, Shannon.”

And with that, she leads them back to the living room. Tony and Tim perch side-by-side on the antique sofa. Both too afraid to touch anything as though they might destroy a priceless antique.

Shannon rubs her finger along the edge of her mug. “How is my husband? Whatever he has done must have been bad to drag two agents all the way up here.”

“He hasn’t done anything,” Tony says.

Her brow furrows.

“But we’re concerned that he might.”

She tilts her head. “How so?”

Pressing his lips together, Tony meets her gaze. “He is one of the best agents at NCIS. People admire him for his stamina and determination. He – “

“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing.” Shannon laughs, crystal and clear like a bell. “Actually, that sounds exactly like Jethro. It hardly seems to merit a trip to see me.”

“Right.” Rubbing his nose, Tony switches gears. “But that’s all he does. _Work_.”

“Jethro always had a sense of duty. To the job. To the Corps.” Her eyes move towards a framed flag that hangs on the wall. “To his country.”

“What about to you?” Tony blurts out.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he knows it was a mistake. The shocked silence sucks all the air from the room and Tony suddenly struggles to take a breath. He can feel Tim’s wide eyes on him, almost questioning whether Tony left decorum and decency and his _fucking_ mind in the car. Tony fumbles, searching for a coherent thought, but he can’t get it out.

“That was the strongest one of all,” she says.  

Tony closes his eyes. “I don’t understand.”

Shannon releases a pained sigh like she is far too tired from carrying the weight of the world any longer. Rising from her seat, she edges to a built-in bookshelf that is full from floor to ceiling with novels and encyclopedias and pictures. Tony knows a lot what escaping looks like.

Plucking a framed photo of the brunette with Gibbs from a high shelf, she stares at it for a long time. It’s long enough for Tim to elbow Tony in the ribs, jerk his head towards the door, and mouth _Let’s get out of here_. Tony just grabs Tim’s shoulder and pins him to the sofa.

Eventually, Shannon turns around to pass Tony and Tim the photo.

“Her name was Kelly,” she says, voice bordering on a whisper.

Tony nods. “I know.”

“Who did you lose?” she asks.

Tim lets out a little _whoosh_ as he shifts in his seat to stare at Tony. Bristling, Tony keeps his eyes glued to the picture. Certain he’ll never get on with the conversation without surrendering a piece of himself, he sighs gently. He never talks about, even though he thinks about it constantly.  

“My mother,” he says, suddenly feeling like there’s no air left for him.

Shannon stays quiet.

“Her name was Jean.” Tony chokes up. He _never_ says her name. “She killed herself when I was ten. Jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge when she took me on a trip to the city. She was there one minute and the next…” He pushes a breath out. Tim’s arm wraps around his shoulders. “I couldn’t stop her. Even if I wanted to.”

“Kelly died in a car accident right after her eighth birthday.” Shannon’s hand unconsciously traces the scar on her face. “Our driver died too. An NCIS agent, straight out of the training school. It almost killed me, but G-d spared me for some reason.”

Tony nods. “Life has a funny way of doing that.”

“I don’t know if I would consider it funny.”

His expression is stoney. “Never do I.”

“All of it was my fault,” Shannon says softly. “If it weren’t for me, we never would’ve been there.”

Struggling to compose himself, Tony nods like a broken wind-up toy. He knows the feeling since he was the one who begged his mother to take him into the city that day. He doesn’t trust himself to speak because he fears that he might crumble right there on a stranger’s couch. Most of his childhood was spent in therapy to deal with his mother’s death while he tried to avoid it for his adult life. If he didn’t speak the words out loud, he could act like it never happened, pretend like she never existed.

When Tim squeezes his shoulder again, Tony releases his hold on the picture frame. He didn’t even realize he gripped it hard enough to cut his palm on the corner. Tim removes a handkerchief from his coat pocket. With a grateful smile, Tony accepts it.

Tim takes over the conversation. “It’s not your fault, Shannon. Things happen – “

“I witnessed a drug dealer, Pedro Hernandez, murder one of my neighbors.” Her face is as drawn as her voice, emotionless like she is reading something as simple as a grocery list. “I was set to testify at his trial before he tried to kill me. He murdered my daughter.”

“Why do you feel comfortable telling us his name?” Tim asks, his brow furrowing.

Shannon lets the question hang between them. There’s a glint in her eye that Tony recognizes from a suspect, an accomplice.

“He’s dead, isn’t he?” Tony asks, his voice cracking.

When she just stares at the floor, Tony and Tim understand exactly what happened to Pedro Hernandez. Gibbs, that infamous Marine sniper with a dead-eye aim and the patience of a saint, neutralized the man who stole his daughter. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth might have a place on the battlefield, but here on the home front, it rips families apart.

Tim pales considerably, trying to buy himself some time by sipping his coffee.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Tony is prepared to let the whole thing slide. If there was someone to hang for his mother’s death, he would’ve done it years ago. But there was no one responsible, only him. And he self-flagellates the only way he knows how: working himself to the bone and cutting himself to the quick. Giving everything he knew to the job. In a way, he was more like Gibbs than Tony would ever like to admit.

 “It was the only way Jethro knew how to cope,” Shannon says, quietly. “And when I recovered, we found out I was pregnant with Eileen. He tried.” She smiles at a memory only she can see. “I’ll always love him for how hard he tried. But the wedge was too great. We never recovered. _I_ never recovered.”

Tony half-nods. “I don’t think he did either, Shannon.”

She looks up at him.

“He leaves the front door unlocked and a light on. It’s like he’s waiting for someone to come home.” Tony nods, deciding to go all in. “It’s like he’s waiting for you.”

Before she has a chance to respond, Tim is on his feet. “Uh, Tony? I think it’s time to go.”

Knowing he is way far out of his bounds and he’ll probably get formally reprimanded for this, Tony smiles apologetically at Shannon. He has done as much as he can. “You know, Tim, you’re probably right. It’ll be dark soon.”

They start to leave, but don’t get far when the front door opens and slams closed. The sound of heavy boots clomp on the foyer floor as someone comes into the living room.

“Mom?” A young woman’s voice calls. “Are you okay? I saw a weird car – “

In the entrance to the living room, a teenaged girl stops short. She wears a black, heavy coat over a cable-knit sweater and jeans with a back-pack slung over one shoulder. She is caught in the great divide between childhood and womanhood. Square hips and not a kiss of curves, quite yet with an awkward grace that will be beauty in time. Her hair is the color of fire and her eyes, the same ice blue at Gibbs’. At the sight of Tony and Tim, a familiar glare forms.

Tim gasps on reflex and mutters something that sounds like, _Oh G-d, it’s genetic_.

“Mom?” she yells.

Coming out from deeper in the living room, Shannon joins them. “Eileen, you’re home early.”

“We had an early dismissal.” Eileen scrunches up her face. “Didn’t you know it’s snowing, Mom?”

Shannon’s eyebrows rise. “No, honey. I guess I wasn’t paying attention.”   

When Tony moves over to the picture window, he eases the heavy curtains out of the way. Outside, the world swirls with fat snowflakes falling drunkenly from the sky. They tuck the world below under an already thick blanket and it’s growing steadily deeper. Tony can’t even see the Mustang through the curtain of snow.

He groans inwardly. “We should really get – “

“I won’t let you two go anywhere in _that_ ,” Shannon interrupts, the scar pulling her face into a lopsided smile. “I sure hope you packed an overnight bag.”


	6. Chapter 6

As the day drags on, the conditions outside worsen by the hour. Snow piles in heaps on the porch, clings to the window sills, cozies up against the cherry red door to prevent Tim and Tony’s escape. By the time the last traces of daylight fade, the world has been reduced to a swirl of stark white. The wind rages against the house, howling and beating the siding as though it tries to break down the walls.

Inside, Tony and Tim gather at Shannon’s huge, farm-style dining room table. Boxes of every board game Tony could imagine—and more than he has never heard of—are stacked on the floor. They let Eileen choose what to play. They are elbow deep in Monopoly and she is busy kicking everyone’s ass. When Tim lands on Park Avenue, complete with a hotel, Eileen smiles smugly and holds out her hand. Groaning, Tim coughs up the last of his candy-colored cash.

Tony excuses himself for more coffee.

He wanders into the kitchen, taking his time to study the pictures lining the hallway. For every one of Eileen, there is another of Kelly. All around the same age, but separated by the decade that should be between them. Tony figures the age difference would be about 8 years, putting Kelly into her early twenties if she were still alive. She should be in college by now, coming home long enough to give her little sister advice about life, boys and driving her parents crazy, not growing cold in the frozen ground.

And what was it like for Eileen to grow up in Kelly’s shadow?

A deceased child is put on a pedestal by parents caught up in the memories of who they were and dashed hopes of who they could have been. Rarely, does anyone remember their faults. Just like Tony barely recalls his mother’s shortcomings. Sure, she liked to drink a little too much. And yes, there was that one time she downed his Sea Monkeys like they were a martini. He doesn’t mind now because she was patient and warm and kind. And when she talked to him, he felt like the only person on the planet.

Shaking his head, Tony pulls himself straight out his mind. Straight out of his memories.

He moves to the coffee pot to refill his mug. After drinking the sludge all day, the flavor has grown on him like a cancer. He still dumps the last of the sugar into it, fills the rest of the cup of milk. Taking a sip, he leans against the countertops. Next to him, an old cast-iron, dutch oven simmers on the stove. The whole room smells like chicken soup and burnt coffee. Tony half-smiles, trying to remember the last time he had a true home-cooked meal.

_I wonder if that that ‘homestyle’ TV dinner last night counts._

He inhales deeply, his mouth watering.

_Board games and dinner and a family. Why would anyone in their right mind give this up?_

Behind him, someone clears their throat.

Tony plasters on his trademark grin as he turns around. “You know, McGee, you shouldn’t sneak up – “

The sight of Eileen standing there instead shuts Tony right up. She stares at him with those piercing, unnerving eyes for a long beat. Tony rubs the back of his neck. It’s as though she can stare straight into his heart and soul, knowing things about him that even he doesn’t. Then she turns to the cabinet for a coffee mug like nothing even happened. When she pours coffee into the mug, he fills the silence.

“Are you even old enough to drink that?” he blurts out, desperate for noise.

She quirks a strange grin. “I’m fourteen.” 

“It’ll stunt your growth.” Tony instantly regrets sounding like an old man with a lecture. 

“It’s not like I’m going to be a supermodel anyways,” she says, shrugging.

Tony can’t tell if she’s joking. “Then what do you want to do when you grow up?”

_Yeah, that’s an appropriate kid-friendly conversation. Right?_

Eileen places the mug down. Then she hoists herself to sit on the counter, feet thumping against the cabinet as she takes to her coffee again. She studies Tony again before she shrugs.

“I want to be a Marine Biologist. You know those people who study the whales at Sea World?” After Tony nods, she speaks again: “I want to help with conservation efforts for marine life.” She looks away before she adds darkly: “Though it’s not like it’ll happen.”

Tony tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“Grampy Gibbs will probably need some help with the general store soon. Since he’s getting older, he is having a hard time managing it. Plus, Mom can’t really help. She can barely leave the house. So I’ll probably end up taking over the store and staying here in Stillwater – “ she pumps her fist with more enthusiasm than her words “ – forever.”

“That’s incredibly mature of you, Eileen.”

She raises both shoulders as well as her eyebrows. “You do what you need to for you family. That’s Mom’s first rule.”

Tony half-smiles. “That sounds like someone I know.”

“Yeah, my dad had rules for everything too.”

At the mention of her father, Eileen’s self-assured demeanor evaporates before Tony’s very eyes. Hunching forward, she fiddles with the wooden spoons in the hunter green, ceramic jar beside her. Her gaze locks on something on the side of the refrigerator, partially obscured by the wall. When Tony follows it, he finds a shaky painting on faded cardstock like the one in Gibbs’ house. A family of three with a big house and a cherry red door. The blocky script _Kelly_ on the bottom is enough to make Tony’s heart sink. He can’t fathom how it makes Eileen feel.

“What is he like?” she whispers, looking down instead.

Tony tries to buy himself time. “Who?”

“My dad.”

_How the hell am I supposed to answer that?_

He settles for diplomacy. “He’s the kind of agent that a lot of people want in their corner. He doesn’t rest until the job is done.”

“That’s what Mom always says,” Eileen says with a sad, little smile. “That he is always too busy to come home. To see us.” She tucks a chunk of that flame-colored hair behind her right ear. “To see me.”

Bristling, Tony fumbles with his coffee. He never was one for emotional conversations, but _fuck,_ this is turning out far worse than he could’ve imagined.

“Do you know what I think, Tony?” she asks.

Tony closes his eyes. “What?”

“That my dad doesn’t give a shit about me and Mom. He’d rather work to save other people’s families than fix his own.” She sets her jaw, finally meeting Tony’s eyes. Anger is wrought across her face. 

“Believe it or not, I know exactly how you feel,” Tony admits quietly.

“Really?” She barks a humorless laugh. “How can _you_ know how _I_ feel?”

“It’s a long story,” he says, looking away.

Eileen crosses her legs, props one hand up on her knee. “There’s a blizzard outside. You and Tim are stuck here for a while.” She crooks a grin. “We’ve got nothing but time.”

Tony isn’t quite ready to take the bait. “You first since it’s your house.”

She rolls her eyes, just a little. “We moved up here when I was eight because my dad got weird when Mom and I lived in Washington.”

“How so?”

“He worked all of the time. Always had a case to close, he’d say. Some dirtbag to find. Even when he and Mom made plans, he’d skip them for something at the office.” Her hands curl tighter around the wooden spoons. “It was like he couldn’t stand being around us.”

Tony steps forward. “You know that isn’t true, Eileen.”

“That’s what everyone says. Maybe it’s true and maybe it isn’t.” With a baleful look in her eyes, Eileen gives him a one-shouldered shrug. “How you act is who you are.”

“Is that another one of your mom’s rules?”

“Rule Eighteen. I think it fits my dad.” Before Tony has a chance to ask, she continues: “When we first moved up here, he used to come visit us a lot. He’d stay with Grampy Gibbs, but he would still be here. Then he would come up just at Christmas.” She stabs one of the wooden spoons back into the container with the rest of them. “Now, he can’t even be bothered with us. He always has to work.”

Tony swallows hard. “I know how that feels.”

The look in her eyes is derisive. “Yeah right.”

“My dad couldn’t be bothered with me either,” Tony admits. “He shipped me off to military school right after my mom died. He’d drop me off at the beginning of the school year and pick me up at the end.”

Clearly interested, Eileen leans forward with her hands on the counter. “Didn’t you have to stay with him over the summer?”

“I spent the summers traveling with my nannies when I was younger. Friends, in high school.” Tony’s grip tightens on the coffee mug when he grasps how personal the conversation grew. “The only time I saw my dad was on the hour drive back to Long Island. And sometimes, he couldn’t even do that.”

Eileen studies him carefully. “That doesn’t sound half-bad.”

“Neither does having your mom around.”

“Touché.” She quirks a grin at him.

Silence worms its way between them, eating away at whatever tenuous act brought them together here. The snow, Tony’s brashness, Eileen’s curiosity, random chance, fate.

Eileen glances over, blue eyes burning with such intensity that it sucks Tony’s breath away. She is an old soul trapped in a young woman’s body and a deceased little girl’s shadow. In her short life, she experienced far too much and understood everything that happened.

“I know it’s Kelly’s fault,” she says quietly.

Tony holds his breath, surprised that such a young woman could be so wise. Still, he plays coy. “What do you mean?”

“My dad told me once how much I reminded him of Kelly. I have her smile.” Eileen purses her lips, takes a deep breath. “That was when my dad stopped visiting as much. Before he stopped visiting at all.”

“I can’t imagine how hard it must have been on you.” Tony nods, his eyes skirting back towards the hallway full of pictures. “All of you.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t easy trying to live up to Kelly’s memory.” Eileen half-smiles. “Maybe it’s just easier that my dad doesn’t see me anymore. That way I don’t have to see the look in his eyes.”

Tony tilts his head, almost begging for more information.

“The one where he wishes that I were her.”

“You know that’s not true,” he says.  

When he meets Eileen’s thunderous expression, he knows she believes every word.

And who is he to contradict her?

He has witnessed the blame for a loved one’s death thrown at every available person, witnessed it shred families to nothing more than rags. Hell, it had even happened to his own. His father spent most of Tony’s childhood blaming him for his mother’s death. In turn, Tony never forgave his father for pushing his mother to jump. There is a certain paresthesia that comes from a death of a family member. Your heart grows numb, deadweight and paralyzed like a victim of a dentist’s novocaine. There is no pain, no feeling, no sense of anything other than the deepening, all-encompassing loss.

“And you want to know the worst part, Tony?” Eileen asks.

He tries his coffee, now cold and disgusting. “What’s that?”

“I still love my dad.” Tears grace the edge of her eyes, rise up so high they might just fall. But she holds them back. “I don’t even care that he wants me to be someone else.”

Tony’s heart sinks.

Then, suddenly, Eileen leaps down off the counter. She wipes her index fingers across her lower eyelid, careful not to smudge her mascara. She is taller than she looks, reedy and long-limbed. After tucking her hair behind her ears again, she raises her eyebrows at Tony.

“You know, Tony,” she says, “you’re a pretty good listener when you aren’t trying to see how many times you can quote Bruce Willis in five minutes.”

Knowing their moment is over, Tony follows her lead. He puts as that goofball mask, that suave confidence, that carefully titrated persona he wears so well. His trademark grin is crooked, as natural as it usually comes. The way she tilts her head, smiles sympathetically tells him that she knows it’s all a lie. She has the grace not to call him out.

He falls into his typical routine. “I wasn’t quoting Bruce Willis. It was John McClane and _Die Hard_ is a classic. ‘Yippi-ki-yay-mother…’ Well, I probably shouldn’t finish that in front of you.”

At least, her laugh is genuine. “You already said that. Like a thousand times.”

“Oh? Are we going to have to watch it so I can prove it to you? I bet I could get McGee to pull it out of the internet somewhere.” Tony crosses his arms, challenging her. “He’ll target it.”

Eileen laughs. “You know that’s not the right word, right?”

Tony blinks. “Then – “

“Torrent,” a familiar voice interrupts.

Tony glances over to find Tim, standing in the entrance to the kitchen. For the first time since they met, Tim looks at ease. His suitcoat is missing, his tie hangs loosened and button down shirt open at the neck. The cuffs of his oxford are rolled up to his elbows. But the most striking feature is the smile he wears that causes his eyes to crinkle. For someone who just had to mortgage half of his life off to pay Eileen’s rent, he looks surprisingly happy.

“Mrs. Gibbs and I were wondering what was keeping you two,” he says as though he knows he walked into something he shouldn’t have.

“Eileen was just showing me where they kept the extra sugar. You know, -- “ he holds out his cup “ – for the coffee.”

“Yeah, but Tony used all of that too,” she says, grinning. “Someone’s got a bit of a sweet tooth!”

Tim just nods as though he doesn’t believe a word.

Tony flinches. “Tell me about this torrenting, McGee. Is it legal?”

“Not exactly.” Glancing over his shoulder, Tim drops his voice. “Is that a problem, Agent DiNozzo?”

Tony makes a show of hemming and hawing. “That depends.”

“On?” Tim asks, cautiously tilting his head. 

“Can you get the sequels too?”

Tim’s eyes shine like he’s up for the challenge. “I can get just about everything that’s been released.”

“Then no, McHacker, it’s not a problem at all.” 


	7. Chapter 7

The rest of the evening slips past like the snow against the windows. Eileen destroys everyone at Monopoly, thanks to that hotel on Park Place. Tim ends up in debtor’s prison first. Shannon loses interest. Tony holds out just a bit longer, but the hotel’s rent comes due for him too. For dinner, they share Shannon’s famous, according to Eileen, chicken soup and homemade bread. When Tony says it’s the best thing he has eaten in years, Shannon smiles like it’s all bluster. He is telling the truth.

Then, Tim works his computer voo-doo with a slow internet connection and a computer that’s probably older than Eileen. It turns out that Tim has some sort of special cord in his backpack— _always prepared, that darn boy scout—_ that lets him hook the computer up to the television so they can have their movie marathon. With Shannon and Eileen taking the sofa and Tim and Tony crammed onto the loveseat, they watch _Die Hard_ and _Die Hard 2._ Tim is about to start _Die Hard with a Vegence_ when Shannon’s eyes dip to half-mast. The men share a nod and smile, then tell her they should probably turn in for the night.

Shannon shows them to the guest room.

Upstairs, there are more pictures of Kelly and Eileen on the wallpaper with the giant, pink roses. Like a time capsule of what was and what should have been. Down the hall, a claw foot tub plays peekaboo behind a bathroom door. There’s barely enough light to see where they’re going from the small, porcelain lamp on the old, intricately carved antique chest. Several closed doors lead to rooms that are likely never used.

Tony half-expects Jason—from the horror movies, obviously—to hop out and chainsaw them all to bits. He takes a steadying breath. His elbow grazes against his sidearm, thankful for its weighty protection.

Shannon stops by a door. When she glances back, the dim light catches in the hollows of her apologetic smile, the distinguished fire in her eyes, the grey highlights at her temples. Even now, in the dead of night, she is still as beautiful as she was in the early afternoon sunlight. Tony wonders how Gibbs could ever let her go, wonders how he could drive her away.

“I’m sorry about the guest room,” she says, voice heavy with sleep and resignation. “I wasn’t expecting visitors today, but I am glad you both came.”

Tim nods. “We appreciate the hospitality, Mrs. Gibbs.” She gives him a pointed look, eliciting a sheepish grin. “Shannon. Thank you for letting us stay.”

“I’m not one to leave anyone out the cold.” She half-smiles. “Especially friends of my husband’s.”

The mention of Gibbs makes Tony wince.

_When he finds out, McGee and I are so dead._

Tony’s stomach churns at the thought. But still, he says: “Thanks for everything, Shannon.”

“If either of you need anything, just knock.”

She stifles a yawn into the back of her hand. With a quick nod, she retreats down the hallway to a room at the top of the stairs. The door closes with a loud _slam_ and just like that, she’s gone.

Both Tim and Tony turn back to the guest room. At that moment, Tony understands her apology. A double bed with a brass headboard and a blue, floral duvet takes up most of the tiny room. An extra set of blankets and pillows sit on the foot of the bed. From the nightstand, the single lamp illuminates the bare walls and single window. The whole room smells like dust and stale air.

Outside, the wind howls like a tortured animal.

Tim slips inside first, flattening himself against the wall to get around the bed. Tony perches, half on the bed, to close the door. Chewing on his lower lip, Tim surveys the situation.

“It should be big enough to share,” Tim starts. “I’ll just stay on my side and sleep on top of the – ” Tony’s stare makes Tim laugh nervously. “Or we could…uh, flip for it?”

Tony nods. “That sounds a little better.”

After producing a coin, Tim flips it and catches it on his arm. “Call it.”

“Heads,” Tony says, because heads are better than tails. Always.

Peeking, Tim makes a face. “It’s tails.”

Tony groans as loud at the wind.

“If you really want the bed, I’ll take the – “

Tony holds his hand up. “You won it. Fair and square.”

With a clipped nod, Tim drops his backpack on the bed, then starts unpacking. He places a pair of pajamas, a towel, and toothbrush on the bed. Then he removes a button-down shirt and khakis.

Tony’s eyebrows jump. “What are you doing, McGee? Moving in?”

“Don’t you pack like you might be away for days, Tony?” Tim asks like it’s normal for a case to take him away from home for a month.

“My team pulls all-nighters, but we always go home to change.”

Tim glances over with a hopeful look. “Really?”

“Yeah. If I know we’re going to be on location for a few days, we go home to pack.”

“That’ll be nice,” Tim says quietly. Then his eyes dart to Tony’s bag. “If you don’t have clothes, what did you bring?”

“You know, stake-out essentials.” Tony cracks open the zipper to display a collection of _MSM_ magazines, back-up weapons, and candy bars. He doesn’t need to show Tim his extra pair of boxers and toothbrush.

Tim laughs. “At least, we’ve got something to read.”

While Tony takes a moment to organize his arsenal, he feels Tim’s eyes studying him. He glances up to hold Tim’s questioning gaze. Sobering confusion mixes with the natural inquisitive stare. Tony feels an interrogation coming on. He sighs.

“Something on your mind, Tim?” he asks.

Tim stands up a bit straighter. “When are we going to talk about _it_?”

Tony pushes a breath through his teeth. Licks his lips, looks at the wall, at the floor. Back at Tim. “Look, McGee, I don’t like to talk about my mom. It’s something that I prefer to keep to myself.”

“It’s not about your mom, Tony.” Now, it’s Tim’s turn to shift his weight and wring his hands. “But I’m sorry about her. I have no idea how you have dealt with it all these years.”

Tony tilts his head. “If it isn’t her, then what?”

“We need to talk about Gibbs.”

“I know.” Tony nods resolutely. “I’m still trying to figure out how to convince Shannon to talk to him.”

Tim gapes for a moment, then he blurts out: “Tony, he _killed_ someone.”

“He used to be a Marine sniper. I’m sure he killed lots of someones.” Tony rubs the back of his neck. “Hell, even _I’ve_ killed a few someones. And when you’ve had enough experience, so will you.”

“If you kill someone in the line of duty, it’s justified. Tony, this is _different_.” Tim takes a deep breath as though searching for calm. Then he adds in a near whisper: “Gibbs murdered someone. In cold blood.”

Tony doesn’t speak, doesn’t even dare breathe. The words cast by Tim hang between them like an anchor that threatens to drag them both down into the depths with Gibbs. The silence drives Tim to start folding and unfolding his clothes, slow at first and more frantic as the seconds tick by. Organization and idle hands are enough to drive Tony crazy. He grabs Tim’s wrists to make the younger man stop.

Tim looks up with those wide, haunted eyes. “What am I supposed to do, Tony? Report Gibbs to the director? I don’t know if I can work for him anymore.”

“You aren’t going to, remember? You’re coming to my team.”

“I know, but – “

“What about all the good that Gibbs has done, Tim?” When Tony gets in the younger man’s face, he catches the scent of Tim’s aftershave. Pine and musk. “Doesn’t any of that matter?”

Tim’s cheeks go stark white. He tries to pull away, but Tony tightens his grip.

“If you hadn’t learned about Hernandez, Tim, your opinion of Gibbs wouldn’t have changed. You would still hate him for being a bastard.”

Tim heaves a breath. “I wouldn’t…I don’t…”

Tony just stares at him.

“But now, he’s a murdering bastard.”

“Who is _still_ the man who helped shape you into the agent that you are.” Tony holds Tim’s gaze. All he sees is duty and honor and righteousness. “The _man_ you are _becoming_.”

Tim looks away. “Will you block my transfer if I go to the director?”

“Not at all, Tim. But I think you need to remember Gibbs has influenced you far more than you realize.” When Tony releases Tim, the younger man rubs his wrists. “There just is more to law enforcement than you understand yet.”

Tim presses his lips together.

“Not everything is black and white. There are shades of grey.”

“Not murder, Tony. Not murder.” Tim holds his hand against his mouth. “There’s a reason we don’t use the Code of Hammurabi anymore, you know.”

“The what?”

“An eye for an eye. A tooth – “

Tony nods. “For a tooth, I know it. Street justice.”

“It leaves the whole world blind and toothless,” Tim says quietly. “We’re federal agents. We should be better than that. We’re not above the law. No one is. Not even Gibbs.”

Tony doesn’t have a response.

Tim gestures at him. “Do you mind?”

When Tony slips out of the way, Tim heads for the bathroom. Tony takes the extra blankets and pillows to make a nest on the floor. He shucks off his jacket, tie and shoes. He bunks in his dress pants and button down shirt, figuring Tim and Shannon might not take kindly to seeing his boxers. Dropping down onto his makeshift bed, he rolls onto his side so Tim won’t be able to see him.

A few minutes later, he hears Tim come back. The younger man kills the light. Then the springs on the old mattress squeak at he climbs into bed.

“Good night,” Tim says quietly as though he already knows Tony won’t answer.


	8. Chapter 8

The following day, Tony and Tim don’t speak to each other. They take turns—wearing Gibbs’ old jeans, faded Marine Corps sweatshirt, his snow boots—with the only snow shovel to clear the long, winding driveway. It takes two days to clear it and another one for the plow truck to remember that someone lives on the isolated, forgotten road. Once the roads are clear, a simple nod from Tony is enough to tell Tim that the vacation is over, that they need to get back home. With a hearty thank you for Shannon and a bear hug from Eileen, the pair pile into Tony’s Mustang.

Climbing into his car should be like falling back into his old life, but Tony feels _so_ different. He finally remembers what it felt like to have people who cared about him, to have people enjoy his company, to have people who appreciated him for who he was. Not for his movie references or his jokes or his wild sense of humor like the people he works with.

_I don’t understand how Gibbs could give these people up._

The Mustang races over the wet highway, chewing up the miles as it rushes down the mountainside, civilization-bound. Outside of the car, the world is a blur of rock-faces slick with chunks of ice and trees kissed by snow underneath a clear blue, cloudless sky. Every so often, the blustering wind flirts with the trees, making their branches dance and sway in time to the soundless music. From the safety of the heated car, the scenery is beautiful.

Tim stares out the window, jaw set and eyes as distant as the horizon.

When the road signs for familiar locations—Philadelphia, then Baltimore, and DC—crop up, Tony releases a sad sigh. In the distance, Washington rises up from the horizon.  Skyscrapers gnaw at the sky like crooked teeth while the rivers slice through its face, a testament to the city’s true age. Here, the snow is grey-black from the salt and smog and traffic, tarnished before it ever touched the ground.

The road is thick with the typical Friday, rush hour traffic. Press down on the gas, only to hit ten miles per hour before slamming on the brakes. Then, get flicked off by the woman/man/kid in the car next to them.

Repeat. Repeat. Re- _fucking_ -peat. 

_Ah, there’s no place like home._

Tim speaks for the first time since they left Pennsylvania. “Do you mind taking me home, Agent DiNozzo? I live in Silver Spring.”

Tony nods.

He’ll deal with Tim’s transfer order, the situation with Gibbs, and his team on Monday. Right now, he just needs some quality time in his apartment with his old friends, Johnny Walker and Captain Morgan.

They’re only a half mile away from Tim’s exit when Tony’s phone buzzes.

He reads the text: _My house now._

Even though he doesn’t recognize the number, he’ll respond as soon as he drops off Tim. Maybe it’s that blonde—the one with legs up to her armpits and breasts the size of her head and the…shining personality—he met a few weeks back, all hot and bothered from a week of being snowed in. Maybe after his little vacation what he really needs is a romp in bed with a new friend. 

Suddenly, the air blasting from the heater is boiling. He cracks the window.

Tim glances over, eyebrows raised. “What are you – “

His phone chirping cuts him off. When he checks it, his face turns a sickly green. Tim holds his cell out for Tony to see. Like he would take his eyes off the road.

“It’s Gibbs, Tony,” Tim moans. “It says: _My house, now_. Oh G-d, we’re so dead”

“Okay, I’ll drop you off at your place. Then we can head over in a few hours.” Tony watches Tim out of the corner of his eye. The younger man looks like he’s ready to vomit all over the detailed upholstery.

Tim shakes his head. “No, you don’t understand. Gibbs means _now.”_

Tony shrugs. “Okay, we’ll go to his house.”

“Do you think he knows what we’ve done?” Tim whispers, as though his life is about to end.

Tony half-nods. “I got the same text. So probably.”

Tim collapses back in his seat, right hand pressed over his eyes. Tony pops off at the next exit, crawls along the city streets towards Gibbs’ house. The soft jazz music on the radio is drowned out by Tim quietly murmuring, “Oh, G-d. We’re so dead.”

\--

By the time they reach Gibbs’ house, the sun has slipped lower in the sky. They inky purple of twilight stains the once white clouds a dull shade of black and grey. A few stars peek out, grinning and winking at the world below. All the houses, save for Gibbs’, on the block swell with life. Porchlights twinkle like beachside lighthouses, calling their owners home, promising safe harbor. In the windows of the neighboring house, Tony watches a group of children clustered around a big screen television while their parents finish dinner in the kitchen.

He sits in the Mustang, heat blasting and engine running. The way the headlights illuminate a patch of snow by the garage door makes its shadow stretch up to the windows on the second floor. A tiny, innocuous being transformed into a giant, terrifying monster. 

Tony waits for Tim to make the first move. Except the younger man is still moaning about how Gibbs is probably going to kill them both and ditch their bodies in the Potomac.

_And people call me dramatic._

When Tony kills the engine, the world around them falls into pitch darkness. The air inside the car almost instantly turns to ice, leaving them both shivering.

Tim glances over, a man on the brink of an existential crisis.

And Tony finally _gets_ it.

Why Tim wanted distance himself from Gibbs.  Why he wanted to go to the director about Hernandez’s death. Why he can barely stand to be here, even though they’re yards away from Gibbs’ house. As someone who built a pedestal for his boss with his own blood and sweat, Tim is not one who will be able to watch Gibbs fall from it without losing his faith in the system. Because then, what is Tim to make of the last fourteen months of his life?

And someday, Tony knows _he_ will be the one on the end of Tim’s disenchantment. That’s the problem with someone who sees things as black and white as Tim does. There is never—and will never be—any shade of grey. Bound by a deep sense of duty and a higher call to fight for the greater good, he is nothing like Tony and Gibbs. Instead of doing the job out of penance, he does it because he _has_ to. Tim feels his job down to the depths of his soul. And for the first time in his career, Tony grows jealous at the younger man’s naivety and innocence.

  _If only life could be that simple…_

Tony nods. “You can stay in the car, McGee. I should be back in – “

“I need to face Gibbs with you,” Tim says, resolutely. “We went to talk to his family together. I should’ve said no, but I…” His voice trails off when he glances towards the front door.

“Had to know exactly what happened to them. You had to find out what made Gibbs, Gibbs.” Tony cracks a knowing smile.

Instead of matching it, Tim scrambles out of the Mustang. He lingers at the edge of the grass, the winter wind whipping his trench coat up behind him as he waits for Tony to join him. Moments later, Tony stands by his side. He tucks his collar up against the air. His breath tries to curl up towards the sky, but it vanishes before it gets very far. Tony stares at the stars that hang just over the nearby rooftops, glinting and flirting with him. In spite of everything, he hopes he made the right choice.

Tim clears his throat.

Since no one cleared the walkway, Tony leads the way by stepping in the footprints already packed into the ankle deep snow. Thankfully, he takes the porch steps with dry socks and shoes. For now. His pants are soaked, clinging to his legs like dead weight. Behind him, he hears Tim mutter a colorful curse, then something about the snow in his shoes.

Tony stops by the door. Goes to knock, thinks better of it.

Certain there is no going back, Tony heads through the front door. The whole house smells like burning wood, coffee, and wet earth. Intense heat smacks Tony right in the face, leaving sweat pouring from his forehead. He removes his coat. Tim is right behind him, shucking off his jacket as well. The interior isn’t all that different from the last time they visited—well, broke in if you ask Tim—except now, a single lamp burns in the living room. Tim and Tony move towards it, a pair of wax-winged Icaruses cresting too close to the blazing sun.

In the living room, they find Gibbs crouched by a roaring fire in his fireplace. He stabs at something with a poker. It takes Tony a minute to realize that Gibbs is grilling a steak on an old cast iron pot on the open flames. There are two more, raw and bleeding, on a plate by his side.

“Was beginning to wonder if you two were coming in,” he says flatly.

Tony cracks a grin. “If I’d known you were making dinner, I would’ve gotten here quicker.”

Over his shoulder, Gibbs smiles like he appreciates the humor. “How do you take your steak, DiNozzo?”

Sizing him up, Tony figures Gibbs probably eats his meat raw. Even though he prefers his with just a tinge of barely, Tony decides he needs to match Gibbs’ testosterone. If he ever expects the man to see him an equal, as someone worthy of opening up to.

“Rare,” Tony says.

Nodding, Gibbs turns back to his cooking. “How about you, McGee?”

Panic blasts across Tim’s face like doesn’t know the right answer. Like there _isn’t_ a right answer. He opens his mouth, closes it. Scrunches his features up. Rubs the back of his neck. Coughs.

“McGee,” Gibbs says.

Tim flinches, then squeaks “Well done” like it’s a question, not an answer.

With another clipped nod, Gibbs pulls the first steak off his pot. As soon as it hits the plate, the bloody juices run out of the barely cooked piece of meat. He subjects the next one to the same treatment: into the searing hot pot, count to twenty, flip, count to ten and done. Then, he tosses the last one into the pot with a certain derision, lets this one go to the count of thirty. After he plops it onto the plate, he digs a few potatoes out of the ashes, adds them to the steaks, and passes them to Tim and Tony.

They take a seat on the crowded couch, shoulder-to-shoulder and plates on their knees.

At the sight of Gibbs’ definition of well done, Tim looks like he is ready to be sick again. He pokes the steak as though it might just eat him first. Tony dives into his dinner before it has a chance to escape. Because G-d knows it wasn’t cooked enough to be dead.

“Thanks,” Tony says.

Tim carefully pokes his food again. “Yeah, thanks.”

Picking his plate off the floor, Gibbs transfers it to the coffee table. Then he sits down in a threadbare arm chair in the corner. In the dim light, he studies Tony and Tim wordlessly.

Going rigid, Tim stares morosely at his food, the floor, the walls, the fire, anywhere other than his boss. Eating his steak and potato that taste like a fireplace, Tony locks eyes with Gibbs. Even though he has only heard about Gibbs’ legendary interrogation techniques, Tony begins to suspect he and Tim might be on the receiving end of one. 

“I heard you went to see my wife and daughter.” Gibbs’ tone is non-accusing, even and matter-of-fact.

Tim chokes on air.

Nodding, Tony holds the conversation and Gibbs’ glare. “We did. Shannon was a wonderful hostess and Eileen is a beautiful young woman. You are lucky to have such a great family.”

A flash of something, surprise maybe, blasts across Gibbs’ face like he didn’t expect Tony to confess right away. Then before it settles in, a quiet rage ignites in his eyes before it engulfs his entire face. Gibbs clasps his plate hard enough for his knuckles to go white, the porcelain probably leaving permanent dents on his palms.

“What the _hell_ were you thinking?” Gibbs says, voice dangerously quiet. “They’re not supposed to be a part of _this_.”

“This? You mean your life?” Tony asks.

When Gibbs flinches, Tony knows he hit the live wire, the loose brick that will send the whole building crashing down. That for some reason, Gibbs left his family— _his wife and only living daughter—_ up in the Pennsylvania wilderness.

The next time Gibbs speaks, his heart isn’t in the fight. “You two had no right – “

“We know about Kelly,” Tony blurts out.

For a moment, it’s as though the air has been sucked out of the room. Neither Gibbs nor Tim bother to even breathe while Tony holds his ground, ready for whatever uncomfortable conversation might be looming. Maybe it’s that he doesn’t know either man well enough to know what might be coming. Or, like his father used to say, he was born without a hint of self-preservation.

Gibbs’s unfocused stare lands on the window behind Tim and Tony’s heads. And for the first time since his adventure began, Tony feels _dirty_ for prying into Gibbs’ life.

“And him,” Tim blurts out. “We know about _him.”_  

“Did what I had to,” Gibbs says carefully. “To keep my girls safe.”

“By sending them to live in the middle of nowhere?” Tony replies.

“That’s where Shannon and I met. After we lost Kelly – “ Gibbs speaks her name with an untold reverence “ – it was the only place she felt safe.”

“And you left her there? Alone?”

Gibbs shakes his head. At least, Tony _thinks_ he does. “She came back to DC when Eileen was born, but she never could adjust to life here.”

Tony blinks. “But why not go back to Pennsylvania with her? Why stay here?”

“Had a job to do.”

Covering his mouth with his hands, Tim disguises his surprise as a cough. When Gibbs’ glare lasers on him, his body sets like stone, rigid and as natural as a statue. This time, he stays quiet.

“Don’t expect either of you to understand,” Gibbs says. 

Tony nods. “You’re right, Gibbs. You say you loved Shannon, but you let her go.”

Gibbs looks Tony straight in the eye. “Love her enough to stay where she asked.”

“And where’s that?”

“Away.”

That single word worms its way through the already tenuous atmosphere. Gnaws at Tony’s heart. Turns his stomach. He wonders whether that’s what his own father felt, a simple desire to be _away._ Or if it was more a sense of duty like Gibbs possessed, a singular desire to protect his family the only that he seemed to know how. Keeping the hell away from them.

Tim coughs.

Tony and Gibbs glances over.

Desperate to stay out of the conversation, Tim takes to sawing his steak into even smaller pieces. If they get any tinier, no one will be able to find them without a microscope. He hasn’t bothered to eat a single bite, just anxiously smashed his potato into the bloody mess and dismembered his steak.

Tony never was one to know when to quit. But if Tim is going to go to the director like he has decided, it might be best for him to hear Gibbs’ side of the story. Maybe there will be something in Gibbs’ story that gives Tim pause, makes him rethink his righteous view of the world.

“Is it because of Pedro Hernandez?” Tony asks.

Gibbs’ face melts into resignation. Like he might be worthy of absolution now that someone else knows his deepest, darkest secret. His MOAS.

“Took the dirt bag that took my daughter,” Gibbs says as though he described going to the store.

Tim tries to stare a hole in his plate.

“I’d have done it too,” Tony offers.

Smashing his plate down on the coffee table, Tim jumps to his feet. “That’s murder, Boss. I thought you, of all people, would respect the system. You’re a federal agent, for G-d’s sake.”

Even though Tim appears to be ready to rush out the front door, he hangs back, desperate to give Gibbs a chance to save himself. To keep himself up on that pedestal that Tim carries his boss around on.

“There was no evidence on Hernandez for my daughter’s murder. Bastard was going to walk for gunning down my little girl and damn near killing my wife.” As he slowly stands, Gibbs is nothing more than a world-weary old man. “Why do you think I push you so hard?”

Looking away, Tim flinches. Chews the inside of his lip.

“I don’t want anyone that _I_ trained to tell a family member there’s no G-damned evidence.” He takes a step forward, with more conviction. “I never want you to have to say that the bastard’s going walk. Families deserve peace, not what I got.”

A torrential wave of his internal war crashes over Tim’s face as every possible emotion appears and disappears in an instant. As though he cannot decide whether his boss is a good and decent man or one of the dirt bags he swore to fight.  To Tony, the younger man is an easy read. Heart on his sleeve and too green to be a good enough liar. But right now, Tony has no idea which conclusion Tim will reach.

Before Tony can stop himself, he says: “I would’ve done the same thing.”

“He never would’ve stopped until Shannon was dead. Then he would’ve come after Eileen.” Gibbs is steadfast, unwavering as he holds Tim’s gaze.

“But, boss…” Tim sounds like a little kid who just discovered his father is a mere mortal, just like everyone else.

“Never said I was a good man, McGee.”

Tim holds his breath, obviously not wanting to look at his boss.

“Only did what I needed to keep my girls safe.” Gibbs sets his jaw, stands a little taller. Nods. “Doesn’t matter if you’re a decent man, McGee, if the only thing worth fighting for is gone.”

_-oooooooo-ooooooooo-ooooooooo-_

After leaving Gibbs’ house, Tony and Tim fall back into their respective lives, their corresponding teams, their separate career paths. They don’t speak at all, especially not about the explosive MOAS they learned at Gibbs’ house. If they see each other around the office, they offer each other a tight smile and nothing more. Two conspirators, sneaking past the authorities, unsure how their fate will unfold.

Just like he promised, Tony approves Tim’s transfer order. Even though he doesn’t know whether the younger man will accept the offer, Tony keeps his word. Tim doesn’t fight it.

“Give McGee two weeks,” the director says to Tony. “Two weeks to close out his cases. Tie up loose ends.” A few beats later, the director adds: “Make his peace with Gibbs.”

Whatever peace that might be.


	9. Chapter 9

On the morning Tim is supposed to start with Tony’s team, he is _late._

Not the _I stopped to get you coffee and doughnuts_ kind, but the _start calling the morgues_ kind. Tony checks his phone every five minutes. Refreshes his e-mail every ten—Tim is a computer guy, after all. Drums his fingers on his desk. Cracks his neck. Pretends to type away on his keyboard like he’s writing a report, but he is just watching the clock.

His Senior Agent, Rosie Wilkos, has worked with him long enough to keep her distance, let him work out his frustrations in the only way he knows how. Raw, nervous energy and constant motion.

But when the hour creeps toward mid-morning, she lets out a world-weary sigh.

Pressing his lips together, Tony makes a face. When he glances over, her wide, brown doe eyes are watching him with a rapt attention. While they are the epitome of childish innocence—and catching in a way that Tony might’ve found beautiful in another life—she is more cynical than Tony. She scoops her shoulder length brown hair up into a bun, then secures it with a pen.

Rosie is giving Tony a chance to say what they’re both thinking and he _knows_ it.

_I wasn’t wrong about McGee. No way in hell._

She purses her lips, sighing again.

Then she says _it:_ “Kinda weird that McGee didn’t show. Don’t you think, Chief?”

Tony bites down, not ready to admit that Tim might just be standing him up. After all those years in law enforcement and his former partners and the people he chose for his team, he never made the wrong choice. Not once. And there is no way he did with the impossibly green and true to his word agent that is Timothy McGee.

Tony calls Tim again. Straight to voicemail: “ _Hi, you’ve reached Special Agent Timothy McGee. Please…”_

He doesn’t even let the recorded message play, just slams the phone closed and tries not to hurl it into the wall. Scrubbing his hand over his face, he shakes his head.

_Where the_ hell _is he?_

In an instant, Rosie is in front of his desk. Her black dress slacks and billowing eggplant shirt cling to her zaftig figure in just the right places. She puts two hands on his desk, leans to catch Tony’s attention. The hint of milk-white cleavage peeking from beneath the open button does just that.

“You’re making that face again, Chief,” she says.

Tony blinks. “What face?”

Rosie waves her hand in front of her face, screws her expression into one they only tend to see on people in the morgue. Jaw set in a near-grimace with closed eyes like she is about to puke or keel over. Then she relaxes and nods like it proves everything.

“I don’t look like that,” he says.

“Of course not, Chief.” Her lips curl into a wicked half-smile. “But you seem to think something hinky is going on right now. Do you want me to run over to McGee’s place? Make sure he didn’t sleep in.”

Tony laughs anxiously. “The kid’s called out four times in three years. I doubt he overslept.”

Chewing on her lower lip, Rosie meets Tony’s gaze. They’re both thinking the same thing.  

“Ping his phone,” Tony orders.

With a clipped nod, Rosie is back to her desk. The raucous sound of tapping fills the Camp Ground and a moment later, she squints at her monitor.

“That can’t be right,” she whispers.

Tony stands up. “What?”

“He just turned it on, Chief. Keep in mind that the search is accurate to a 100 meter radius. When we’re in the city, it makes it a lot harder to pinpoint an exact location. So I could be off by – ”

“Come on, Rose. Get to the good part.”

Rosie shrugs sheepishly. “McGee is in the building.”

“Ah.”

Then she quietly adds: “Do you think Gibbs got to him?”

“That’s what I’m hoping _didn’t_ happen.” Tony’s eyes flick towards the Bullpen. “I’ll be right back.”

Rosie nods. “I’ll hold down the fort.”

With an appreciative smile, Tony heads straight for the Bullpen. The atmosphere hasn’t changes much since his previous visit. There’s still that unmistakable weight hanging in the air like the agents are too afraid to laugh, share a smile, or even speak. Probie One sits at Tim’s old desk while an even younger looking agent took over his.

_Jesus, did they get that one out of preschool?_

They are hard at work, eyes glued to their computers and backs ramrod straight. No one even bothers to look at Tony. For a moment, he wonders whether it’s because their work is _that_ interesting or if they think Gibbs will send them to run fifty laps around the building.

Gibbs is at his desk, glaring at a report as though it’s at fault for being poorly written. Even though he is still as rigid and as unyielding as before, a certain sorrow clouds his eyes like his heart just isn’t in the work anymore. When Tony approaches, he looks over his reading glasses.

“DiNozzo,” he greets.

“Gibbs.” Tony’s trademark grin tries to counteract Gibbs’ stony expression. “Have you seen McGee?”

“Not today. Why?”

Tony half-shrugs. “I haven’t been able to reach him. I thought you had a rule for that.”

That catches the other agent’s attention and their heads pop up over their computer monitors, like prairie dogs peering out of their burrows. Gibbs carefully places the report on his desk. Apprehension passes over Gibbs’ face as he starts to stand, probably to pull Tony for a sidebar.

At that moment, the elevator pings. All eyes jump towards it to watch a harried Tim rush out of the elevator. His trench coat is thrown on haphazardly, backpack on his left-shoulder and suit wrinkled. He checks his watch, cursing to himself. He barely makes it a few steps before he turns to the Bullpen. He gives everyone a dead-fish stare before his entire face flushes. He manages an awkward smile.

“McGee!” Gibbs snaps.

Tim rushes over, tripping over his feet, dropping his backpack. He sidles up, right in front of Gibbs’ desk, next to Tony. Tries to get himself as put together as possible. He just ends up panting and letting the backpack slide all the way to the floor. It lands on Tony’s foot.

“Boss. Tony.”

“Not your boss anymore,” Gibbs says flatly.

Tim winces at the screw up, then skirts his gaze to Tony. “Boss. Gibbs.”

“Where were you, McGee?” Tony asks. “You’re two and a half hours late. On your first day with my team. Don’t you have a rule for that, Gibbs?”

Gibbs half-nods.

Then Probie One blurts out: “Rule Three!” like he might get a pat on the back and an _Attaboy!_ All he earns is a withering glare that sends him back into his work.

“It’s a, uh, a long story?” Tim clears his throat, shifts his weight. “Uh, Tony.” Makes a face. “Um, Boss. I had a really good explanation…”

When the elevator dings again, Tim’s voice trails off. Tony thinks the younger man might still be talking under his breath, but he can’t tell. And at the moment, he doesn’t really care. He is too interested in the two women heading off the elevator, glancing around uncertainly.

The flame-colored hair. The hitched limp. Those crystal blue eyes that slice like daggers. The dark expression that is identical to the man sitting in front of Tony.

Shannon and Eileen.

_Tim must’ve driven up to PA to get them._

“You didn’t,” Tony whispers.

Tim grins. “I did.”

At the sight of Tony, Eileen breaks into a tentative smile. Then she grabs her mother’s arm and leads them into the Bullpen. They are just by the entrance when Shannon comes to a full stop, unable to move any further forward. She stares ahead as though she just woke up from a deep sleep and isn’t sure whether she is still in the middle of a dream. When her gaze lands on Gibbs, tears rise to the corner of her eyes. They follow the trail of the scar down her cheek.

Tony holds his breath.

Behind his desk, Gibbs stares at the two of them. His impassiveness melts into quiet shock. Like he doesn’t know how to handle his two separate lives colliding into each other like two runaway trains. His lips move slowly, producing no sound, as he stands. When he glances at Eileen, the walls he built to keep the people closest to him crumble.

“Jethro,” Shannon says quietly, carefully, treading on air.

Gibbs’ eyes are as clear as a summer sky, his expression more open than Tony has ever seen.

“Dad?” Eileen asks.

Gibbs slides around the desk, pushing past Tony and Tim like they aren’t even there. He stops a few feet away, soaking them up, drinking in every little detail. While he studies Eileen, she runs her boot along the threadbare floor.

“Dad,” she repeats, surer this time.

There’s an apprehension in her movement that Tony recognizes instantly. That yearning to make her father proud while trying to convince herself that he doesn’t matter, that she doesn’t care. He wants to shove Gibbs into his family, make him understand that they are the best thing that will ever happen.

Just as he is about to move, Tim’s steadying hand grips his forearm. _Let him figure it out on his own,_ the grasp seems to say.

“I’ve missed you two,” Gibbs says, voice soft as a whisper.

Shannon nods. “We’ve missed you too.”

Gibbs swallows hard.

“I’m sorry.” He speaks so low that he is barely audible. “I am _so_ sorry for everything that I’ve done. I should have remembered what really mattered. You.” His eyes dance from Shannon to Eileen and back. “Both of you are the only things that matter.” He nods to keep his emotions in check. “I would do anything to keep you safe.” 

“I know.” When Shannon nods, the life rages in her eyes. “I forgive you, Jethro.”

Eileen looks between the two of them, desperate to know what they’re discussing. Then she nods, accepting that sometimes parents need to keep their secrets.

“I love you, Dad,” she offers.

“I love you too, Leenie,” he says, making Eileen smile as she starts to cry.  

Looking away, Gibbs whispers: “Can I come home, Shannon?”

Shannon half-laughs. “Why do you think you had to ask, Jethro? I leave the door unlocked every night in hopes that you’ll join us.”

That’s the moment, Gibbs rubs his cheeks as though he might be crying. Tony won’t dare to say that he is—even under the threat of death later—because he has a feeling that Gibbs doesn’t cry. At all. 

“I do the same for you,” Gibbs whispers.

When they share that sad smile of two people who suffered a common tragedy, Shannon begins to bawl. Gibbs rushes towards what’s left of his family. He wraps one arm around Shannon’s shoulders and the other around Eileen, pulling them into a giant hug. He kisses the top of their heads, murmuring “My girls. My girls,” over and over again.

Beside Tony, Tim sniffles quietly. When he glances over, he isn’t surprised to find Tim silently crying. Blushing ferociously, Tim looks at The Most Wanted Wall as he rubs the tears away. Tony clamps his hand on the younger man’s shoulder and squeezes it until Tim meets his eyes.

“Good work, McGee,” Tony says.

Tim half-nods. “Thanks, Tony.”

Then, they turn to watch Gibbs clutch his girls as though he’ll never let them go again. There is a beauty in the reunion that makes Tony’s heart swell up in his chest as though it might just burst. He closes his eyes, tries to imagine what it would feel like to come home after all those years, all those miles, all those sins. Even though he didn’t repair his own family, saving Gibbs’ will have to suffice. Because he had the chance to be a part of it, to be a part of their happiness and their love.

If only for a moment.


	10. Epilogue

**Four Months Later**

Rosie swoops into the Camp Ground like her ass is on fire. Without even looking over at Tony, she dives into her desk drawer for her purse. She crams a couple of case files into it, then a few loose papers. When she turns towards Tony, she freezes, a slightly embarrassed smile on her lips.

Tony opens his mouth to ask exactly where she’s going.

“We got it, Chief,” she says, the words rushed. “That bastard just confessed to killing his girlfriend. I was hoping to update my report from the road.” She fingers the strap of her purse, trying to avoid saying the word _Please._ She never was one to beg. If you consider saying _please_ to be begging like Rosie does. 

Tony tilts his head. “Your sister?”

Her grin broadens, bold and excited this time. “Just went into labor. I’m hoping to make it to Charleston before the squirt shows up.”

“Get going, Rose.” Tony waves his hand to tell her to _get going_. “You shouldn’t miss you twin having her baby. Get me that report when you can.”

Rosie stands a little straighter and gives a tiny salute. “I should be back on Monday.”

“Don’t bother. We’ll be on cold cases for a little while.” Tony laughs. “McGee and I can handle that next week. Enjoy your leave.”

Rosie grins. “Thanks, Chief.”

Then, she races out of the Camp Ground. At that moment, Tim McGee heads over from interrogation. When Rosie rushes past him with a quick _see you next week, McGee,_ he is smart enough to press himself flat against the wall. He clutches his papers and files to his chest as though they might get sucked into the winds of Tornado Rosie. Once the doors close and she’s safely gone, he heads for his desk.

He shakes his head at Tony. “She beat me, Boss. And I took the quick way.”

Tony quirks a smile. “Never get between a woman and a baby. It’s the quickest way to lose a limb.”

After giving it some serious thought, Tim nods his agreement.

Then he catches Tony up on the details of their case. Petty Officer killed his girlfriend for sleeping with his best friend while he was shipped out. Written up, signed and with the JAG lawyer supporting his client the whole way. Slam dunk. Just the way Tony liked them. It doesn’t take long for them to finish their reports and get them ready to be filed.

Just as they’re ready to leave, Tony gets a text: _Dinner. Bring McGee._

He doesn’t even bother to check the sender. Every order that comes under the guise of an invitation is only ever one person. Gibbs.

Tony grins broadly. “Looks like we’re going to dinner again, McGee.”

“Gibbs?” When Tony nods, Tim continues: “Didn’t we just go last weekend?”

“Are you going to turn down good food and board games?”

Tim considers the thought. “Well, Eileen does keep kicking my ass.” Then a moment later: “What do you think Mrs. Gibbs is making this week?”

“Does it matter?” Tony asks.

Tim smiles. “Not really.”

Tony already has his stuff out, keys in hand and suit jacket buttoned. “I’ll see you over there?”

“Yeah, sure.” When Tim reaches into his desk, he makes a face. “I forgot my car’s in the shop. I was going to take the bus home. I might have to – “

The wave of Tony’s hand quiets Tim. “Come on, McFreeLoader. I’ll give you a ride.”

In a companionable silence, Tony and Tim take the elevator to the garage. It’s a routine they have fallen into in recent months. If case work allows, of course. On a Friday night, around dinner time—since Gibbs never stays late anymore unless he must—Gibbs sends one of them a text. At first, it was an actual invitation. _Dinner at my place, if you want._ Then it slowly morphed into just, _Dinner_. Tony isn’t entirely convinced that Gibbs is the one sending the texts, thinks it’s probably Eileen taking on technology in her father’s stead. Not that Gibbs would admit that to anyone.

With rush hour traffic, the drive to Gibbs’ house is slow, at best. Clutching the steering wheel, staring at the brake lights in the car in front of them. To celebrate the end of yet another work week, Tony rolls the windows down in the Mustang. The air outside is hot, stifling for early summer. The sun, growing bold enough to stay out longer every day, belts down on them with a blazing heat.

Somewhere on I-95, Tim asks: “Can we turn on the AC?”

Tony obliges. Air hotter than the bowels of hell pours out.

“Turn it off. Turn it off!” Panting, Tim rubs the sweat from his brow.

“If you insist.”  Tony half-shrugs. “Being a little warm is a small price to pay for a piece of motor history like Betty.”

Tim scowls. “Why don’t you get that fixed?”

“No one’s ever been able to fix it.”

Tim doesn’t complain again.

By the time Tony pulls into Gibbs’ driveway, they’re both soaked with sweat. It takes Tony a full minute to peel his ass off the leather seat. Once he’s free, he notices Tim staring at him over the top of the car.

“What?” he asks.

Tim uses his tie to wipe his flushed face. “Next time, I’ll drive.”

“As you wish,” Tony says, heading towards Gibbs’ front door.

Tim hangs back. “Did you really just quote _The Princess Bride?”_

Glancing over his shoulder, Tony laughs. “Of course, you’ve seen that one.” Then he trolls, “Inconceivable!” just like one of the characters.

“You saw it too,” Tim counters. “Mrs. Gibbs picked it for that movie night a couple of weeks ago. Don’t you remember? You spent the whole following week telling Rosie that your name was…whatever the heck that crazy Spaniard’s name was.”

“Inigo Montoya. How hard is that to remember?” Tony pinches the bridge of his nose. “But like usual, I think you missed the point, McGee.”

“And what was that?” Tim asks, clearly confused.

After that roundabout conversation, Tony doesn’t have any idea either. He drops it with a one-shouldered shrug and that shit-eating grin that lets him get away with murder.

Tim just rolls his eyes.

With a jerk of his head, Tony leads the way up to the front door. Since their first visit months ago, signs of life have slowly sprouted as the winter snow thawed and spring eased its way back in. Pink and yellow petunias celebrate, their flowers in full-bloom, cheering on the summer days. On the porch, the swing is back up, covered in a fresh coat of robin’s egg blue pain, while a potted geranium army invades the space under the big, bay window. A woman’s touch, Tony decides, looks good on the place.

Tony heads straight inside with Tim right on his heels.

The door is still never locked, except now it isn’t in case Shannon and Eileen chose to return. Now, it’s for two men who fit into the Gibbs family like they’ve always been a part of it.

As soon as he’s inside, Tony nearly trips over a gym bag and a lacrosse stick that’s propped up by the door. While he rights himself, Tim moves the athletic equipment out of the way. The whole house smells like burgers and grilled potatoes…with still a hint of stale sawdust.

Eileen whips around the corner, hair up in a high ponytail and wearing a lacrosse uniform from the local high school. At the sight of Tony and Tim, her relaxed face breaks out into a grin. Gone are the quiet frustration and the wilted look in her eyes, replaced by boundless energy and genuine joy.

“Mom! Dad!” she calls. “Tim and Tony are here!”

Shannon’s head pops out from the kitchen, surveying them both. “Dinner’s almost ready! It looks like neither of you have had a good meal in a week!”

Tony and Tim share a look that says _Well, not since you fed us last week._

“What are we having, Mrs. Gibbs?” When she stares Tim down, he corrects himself: “Shannon.”

“That’s better, Tim.”  She nods resolutely. “We’re having burgers.”

Realizing he hasn’t eaten all day, Tony starts to salivate. “I can’t wait.” 

Shannon laughs. “I’ve still got some work to do. Why don’t you play a game first?”

“Monopoly?” Eileen blurts out.

“Only if I get to be the shoe,” Tony says.

Tim raises his eyebrows. “You know I’m always the shoe.”

Tony shrugs. “Sorry, McSlowpoke, I called it first.”

While Tim fumes, Eileen yells: “Hey Dad! We’re going to play Monopoly first! Is that okay?”

When he comes out of the dining room to join them, Gibbs offers Tony and Tim a quick, silent nod. They return it, strangely accustomed to the usual greeting. No words ever pass between them anymore, they just pick up where they left off as though their time together never really ended.

And Tony understands why.

In his jeans and old Corps T-shirt, Gibbs is relaxed for the first time in years. His face is open and calm, his eyes clear and tranquil. And there is a slight uptick to the corner of his lips, a near smile. While that will be the most that Tony and Tim ever get, he graciously accepts it. The grins and the laughter and the joy are reserved for his girls, only for his girls. Tony and Tim are just guests.

_I’m glad he’s happy. Maybe it’s time for me to start working on myself now._

“I’m the shoe,” Gibbs announces, ending any and all arguments about it.

Tim’s face sours even further. Tony tries to figure out which game piece could be Tim’s back-up because he has been the shoe _every freaking time_ they’ve played this game.

_I bet he’ll go for the thimble next._

Eileen shoots Tony and Tim a familial glare that’s increased in intensity over the months. “I’m going to kick everyone’s ass.” Her face goes white when Gibbs lasers his on her. “Butt. I meant to say butt.”

Gibbs’ eyes fall on Tony next, sending his heart straight into his throat. He takes a full step back, hands up in surrender. While he may have been the culprit in corrupting many a man’s daughters, he sure as hell didn’t teach Eileen Gibbs to swear like a sailor. Even he is smart enough to know a foul word would be the first thing to lead to a burial at sea on a boat built by Gibbs.

“Don’t look at me. I didn’t teach her to say that.” Tony coughs awkwardly, casting a sideways glance at Tim. “Even if it is true.”

When all eyes land on him, Tim just sighs. “But she always kicks my ass…”


End file.
